The Berlin Connection (27 page)

It was now ten-thirty. I was to be ready for shooting at eleven-thirty. Make-up would take an hour. And I was not even at the studio. Albrecht would be in a rage and rightfully so.

Fleetingly, but sincerely, I regretted the circumstances which had existed in some American POW camps in 1944. Had the anti-fascists received fairer treatment in Texas and Oklahoma fifteen years ago I might have had a friend in Hamburg, at least not an enemy.

That is the way of life. Our lives weave the fabric of existence, an inescapable web with a detestable pattern.

I made my telephone call to Madam Misere from a call box. Perhaps the police were already there. Possibly her telephone was being tapped. Why had Schauberg really been arrested?

"Kathe came to see me this morning."

"Yes, I know." Madam did not say, 'Yes, I know, Mr. Jordan.' One could rely on her.

"I'm sorry for the girl."

"It is terrible for her. She seems to love him very much. I hardly know him."

"I don't know him at all. What is his name?"

"Schauberg. He came to see her here several times. He made an excellent impression on me."

"I heard he is a doctor?"

"That's right."

"And a doctor breaks in somewhere?"

"I think the entire business is a tragic mistake which will soon be cleared up."

"Kathe begged me for help. I'd be glad to help ber. I'd be glad to help her financially. Since I don't know any lawyers here I thought that perhaps you could ..."

"Kathe is one of my best girls. I have already arranged for a lawyer. I like to be a second mother to my girls. Thank you for your concern."

"Well, if one can be of help .. ."

"Always on the side of the underdoe," said the keeper of the bordello who apparently had been raised in the best English tradition. "I'm sure it is an error. It will be cleared up. The police will arrive at the truth. My lawyer will assist them in that."

"Well, then, if it is a question of money . . ."

"Thank you so much. It is not very often one meets such a generous and warm-hearted man such as ynu. I hope you will honor us soon with a visit. Please call first so I may make the best arrangements.*'

"Thank you, I will." Kathe should arrive there soon and announce that I would be there this evening.

Out of superstition I drove out to the old barn where I usually met Schauberg. There, carefully following his directions, I gave myself an injection. I broke the first ampoule. The injection was" painful. If anyone had seen me there, clothes in disarray, contorted limbs and distorted face, they would have called a psychiatrist right away.

".. . Should such an attack reoccur you would need an intravenous injection . . ."

Who would give me that injection?

Natasha Petrovna? She would not do it. She would call the police. Or send me away.

Should such an attack reoccur ...

There would be another attack. Why not? Then what? A person whom I could trust. No such person. No one would trust me not without reason.

Since man hopes so long as there is life in him, T hooed we could get Schauberg oflf quickly. Perhaps everything would turn out well. In spite of everything.

8

Naturally T was not ready for shooting at eleven-thirty. Tired out, I arrived at the studio just after eleven.

My dressing-room assistant told me Albrecht was furious. He had had to change the schedule because of my absence and had now advanced the lunch period. I took two of Schauberg's red pills and gradually felt calmer.

After make-up and dressing I went to the cutting de-

_ 257

partment to talk to Shirley. She was not alone. The chief cutter, Jaky, and his very handsome German assistant were there too. Shirley was operating an editing machine. She did not look at me.

"Have a look at that, Mr. Jordan," said Jaky. To Shirley, "Show it to daddy." Shirley started the editor. Number 427 was rolling. I saw Wallace kill me with the bronze lamp.

I said, "What's the problem?"

"The sound stinks," said Jaky.

"This scene is supposed to be reshot," I said. "Just like the others we did in the first few days."

"Not this one," said the German assistant. He seemed to like Shirley. He was staring at her a great deal.

"That's right," said Jaky. "But where did you get that sound, man? Couldn't you find anything better than this?"

The good-looking assistant was offended. "We've tried other sound effects. This is the best they had in the archives."

"It has to be a real skull, a read head," said Jaky pensively.

"Why don't you use your own," said his assistant, annoyed.

Jaky ignored him. "I'll get enough skulls for three remakes. It will only take an hour."

The loudspeaker clicked. "Mr. Jordan, you are wanted in Studio Three. Mr. Jordan, please."

Shirley had said nothing. She had not once looked at me.

At three o'clock I had a few free minutes. In the cutting department was only one film splicer.

"They are aU at the Sound Department." I found Shirley in Hall Three. She was squatting on the floor, a microphone above her. On the floor before her were six pig's heads. The heavy hammer she had used to smash the heads of those dismembered pigs was still in her hand.

"Okay, Shirley!" Jaky was pleased. "That sound is authentic. Wait a minute and we'll get the effect."

Jaky and his assistant disappeared. Shirley and I were alone. I helped her up. Her face was white; she looked ill and helpless as she sank down on a chair. I was moved.

"Were you sick again?"

She nodded. "What about this doctor?"

"I'll know by tonight. A lawyer is already looking into it." I lied. "And if he is not successful I have another doctor. Don't worry, darling. We'll help you. In a few days it will be over, I swear."

Now she looked at me and held her hand out to me. It was cold and narrow, and without strength. Her beautiful eyes, no longer burning with this morning's fury and jealousy, were dull, her voice apathetic. "I'm sorry about this morning."

"Shirley—"

"And for my behavior last night too. Please forgive me, Peter."

Seeing Shirley, seeing her brave struggling to overcome her despair, I was suddenly mortified. What had I done? Could this be love? Love which destroyed the loved one? Wasn^t I only in love with myself? Had that woman been right who once had said, "You are incapable of love. You don't even know what love is."

"Shirley, tonight on our way home—" T began but realized that tonight I was to go to Madam Misere's. I started again. "Tonight at the hotel I'll explain—"

"Don't," she said. Her tired voice held no anger. "No, I don't want you to explain anything."

"But—"

She pressed my hand. "Let me talk. You'll be called back to the studio in a moment."

"Shirley," I said, "my sweet, my all, trust me. I love you. Please believe me. I love you. You're all I live for. I think only of you. Of the secrets between us, the letters we wrote, read and then burned. Our meetings. The small

hotels. The telephone calls. Flowers without notes. All this forbidden life, this love. It is my only, my true love, Shirley..."

"Mine too." She lowered her head as if we were both talking of someone dead, someone to grieve for.

"The little bar. Our song. I love you Shirley. Believe

me.

"I do believe you. But I also believe that you are in some trouble here in Hamburg."

"If you mean the blonde girl this morning— **

"Not only the girl. There are other things."

"Shirley—"

"I think you are very unhappy right now. I think you would have to lie if you were to teU me what happened here. That's why I don't want you to explain anything. I trust you. There is nothing I can do. I'll see what happens. I just don't want to be lied to any more."

"I would not lie to you," I said and thought: I'm lying right now.

"Yes, Peter, you would. All m_y life Tve heard lies. From Joan. From you. From my friends. From boys. Many, many lies. I love you, too, with all my heart. I know you'U do the best you can for both of us. But I could not bear to be told any more lies."

I tried to put my arm around her, to hold her, kiss her. I did not care if someone came and. saw us. Shirley pushed me away. "Please don't. Don't touch me. I feel nauseous at the slightest..."

I stepped back, suddenly feeling chilly. Was that love? Had we both come to this?

"Don't be angry, Peter. When the child is—"

"Yes," I said. "Of course."

"Now I've hurt your feelings."

"No, I understand," I said.

Jaky and his assistant appeared. The chief cutter showed his elation. "Boy, oh, boy, what sound! I must say I'm a genius! You know where we got those pigs' heads from,

Mr. Jordan? From the slauehterhouse in Wandsbeck. I hope you're not going to take offense now!"

"Why should I?"

"Because I thought of a pig's head as a substitute for your head!" He roared with laughter. "But to make sure we'll do it once more, Shirley."

"All right, Mr. Jaky." Shirley rose and, picking up the heavy hammer, she said to me, "That woman called."

"Excuse me?"

"This morning. You weren't here."

"But—"

"They transferred the call to me. I guess they think I'm your real daughter. Or they thought it was Joan."

"It couldn't have been this woman!"

"It was."

"How do you know?"

"She asked for you."

"Well, that's no proof."

"She gave me her name.".

"What's her name?"

"Mrs. Petrovna."

I stared at Shirley.

"You see, Peter. That's why I don't want you to explain anything. You would have to lie."

Red and green lights flashed on.

"Ready, Shirley?"

"Yes, Mr. Jaky."

"Shirley, that's crazy! It couldn't have been that woman! I don't know a Mrs. Petrovna!"

"The mike is live, Peter."

I turned to leave when Jaky asked me to stand still.

"Okay, Shirley!"

Shirley kneeled down. She raised the hanmier. The impact smashed the head.

"Marvelous!" Jaky's voice was ecstatic. I looked at Shirley. She shook her head and looked aside. There was nothing I could say or do. I walked to the exit.

Mrs. Petrovna.

Damn, why had she called? Resentment and anger rose in me. How could she? She was a woman. She had intuition. She should have known—

Known what?

What should she have known?

Nothing, nothing at all.

In the telephone booth outside the sound department I looked up her telephone number. Her serene, gentle voice answered.

"This is Jordan." I was still angry. "I'm at the studio. You called this morning."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Good God, did I do something wrong?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry. I had no idea your daughter was working at the studio too."

"What was it you wanted from me?" I asked. While I was talking I felt my anger and resentment abate under the influence of her gentle, soft voice.

"I wanted to thank you."

"To thank me?"

"For the lovely flowers, the crayons, the sketch pad."

The flowers and crayons. I had completely forgotten.

She had wanted to thank me. For a person like Natasha Petrovna that was the natural thing to do. If only she were here, I thought. Perhaps then I could have told her the true story I had to keep from Shirley. I had told lies all my life. For the first time I experienced the torture of not being able to disclose the truth to anyone. If Natasha were here now...

No!

It was madness. This line of thinking was folly.

"I must see you; I must talk with you, Natasha." I did not call her Mrs. Petrovna. I hardly knew her and I called her by her first name.

Her voice was calm. "When?" "As soon as possible."

"Tell me when and where." Was her voice still calm? Was I wrong or was her voice breathless? No, I was not wrong. I said, "I'll meet you ..."

Rome, April fourteenth, 1960.

Professor Pontevivo said, "Alcoholism is a prop for the mind. Most people in this day and age are unhappier, less free and satisfied than they will admit to, or rather than they are aware of. Albert Camus called this the century of fear. People try to banish fear with alcohol. That is why this is also the century of alcoholism."

"Don't you think, Professor, that in all other centuries people thought their time the most frightening?" I asked. "Don't you think that we too are just victims of this distorted historical view which makes the present appear worse than any past?"

"No, Mr. Jordan, I don't. The impact and resulting momentous effects are greater in our present than at any time in the past. We have objective human and scientific proof of that."

"The objective human proof?"

"In only twenty-five years, between 1922 and 1947, seventy million men, women and children were deported, uprooted or murdered. There were two world wars; revolutions and concentration camps are too numerous to count. Systematic brainwashing and mass propaganda are as much part of our everyday life as is the existence of the hydrogen bomb."

"The objective scientific proof?"

"Can be derived from findings of psychiatrists, theol-

ogists, and sociologists who have examined the behavior of people; above all, the artists of these decades. Shall we talk about the artist for a moment? It was the traditional duty of the artist throughout the centuries to shoulder all the fears, the guilt and the problems of humanity and, with his spirit, his talent, kis genius, create a work of art which would bring understanding, relief and release to the viewers, listeners or readers. That was his role. For that, he was admired, revered—and paid.

"And the artist today? With abstract art and atonal music he intentionally destroys any recognizable reality and creates a world in which he is the master, for no one else can understand this, his world.'*

"That's why he is the master!"

"Certainly, Mr. Jordan. But why does he create this world which does not really exist? Only because he can no longer master the one he lives in. What do the writers do? For a long period, on stage, screen and in books, they could only work under the influence of psychoanalysis. Now they have begun to break the bridges between themselves and their audiences. They no longer want to move, to exalt, or release. More and more they try to involve their public in their own fears, their own inability to solve their problems. Artists no longer want to relieve their public of its fears, troubles, and doubts; they want to make their readers, their audience, their viewers as fearful, despairing, and helpless as they are themselves—and have to be."