The Berlin Connection (50 page)

That was the evening of December twenty-fifth. It was still storming. Suddenly I felt very uneasy.

"Natasha, I don't want to frighten you but I think I'm

dying."

She took my blood pressure. The conductor knocked, looked m and asked how everything was going. Natasha smiled brightly and I attempted a smile too. She said, "He's doing just fine, thank you."

"We'll be in Verona in fifteen minutes, ma'am," he said. "Just in case your husband is not that well." He disappeared. ^ "What's my blood pressure?"

"One hundred."

"But it was 170!"

"Blood pressure fluctuates. You feel iU because it dropped."

She counted my pulse.

"How high?"

"One hundred thkty."

"Natasha..."

"Yes, darUng, yes?"

"I'm afraid."

"You must pull yourself together. Please, please, do try. We must get to Rome."

"I won't see Rome. I'm dying."

"You are not!"

"Yes, I am. I'm so sorry. After all the trouble you've taken. I feel it. I'm dying. I'm dying."

I could not see but I still heard the howling of the storm. The train was rounding a curve and my bed tilted. Simultaneously that giant invisible fist I knew so well hit the pit of my stomach, rose and crushed my heart.

I could not see nor hear nor breathe. My body arched. There was only darkness. I plunged into bottomless depths. Ten minutes before we reached Verona I died again only to begin living my miserable, cursed life once more.

At first everything was out of focus. Then I saw that I was in a brass bed of an impersonal cheerless hotel room. Cheap modern furniture, hnoleum flooring, a towel on the floor near the washbasin.

Last daylight fell through a smaU window. I again heard the storm and saw dancing snowflakes. Natasha in her blue suit was sitting by the window. Newspapers were piled on a small bamboo table.

I tried to sit up but I was too weak. I could hardly keep my eyes open. I fell back onto the soft, sHghtly damp pillow. The faucets were dripping. The drops were distressingly loud.

Natasha came to me. There were wrinkles and lines in her face. Natasha looked exhausted but she smiled as she sat on my bed and stroked my hand.

With difficulty I asked, "What time is it?"

"Six in the evening."

"Which day?"

"Sunday."

"Sunday? But ... but we left Thursday!"

"We arrived here Friday. You've been sleeping since then. Thank God."

"Where are we?"

"In Verona. A hotel near the railroad station. It's a new hotel and the owner is very nice. When we dragged you in here..."

"Dragged me?"

"Two railroad men and I. You fainted on the train.

Don't you remember?"

"Yes, I do now. Didn't you give me an injection?" "Immediately. Soon afterward the train stopped. You

were still unconscious. I did not dare leave you on that

train. Now, when we brought you here the owner insisted that a doctor be called. I showed him my credentials. He was satisfied then. I think we can go on to Rome tonight. Anyway,'! have reserved another compartment."

"I can't walk ... not even a step . .."

*'We could use a stretcher. As I told you, the hotel is very close to the station. In Rome an ambulance will pick you up from the train. Before you have another attack you must get to the clinic."

"It was a very bad one this time, wasn't it?"

"You were extremely lucky. Your symptoms on the train all indicated that you were verging on d.t.'s. I was terribly afraid! Your trembhng, the blood pressure, your pulse, when you said you saw tiny creatures ..."

"Those things precede the delirium?"

"That's right."

"And then what happens?"

"Raving. Madness. Terrifying fear. The delirium is extremely dangerous. The agitation and nervous excitement are a severe strain on the heart, the liver. The heart could fail. Pneumonia could set in . . . and then it becomes very difficult to induce sleep. A patient with d.t.'s can only be successfully ti^eated in a clinic, under constant care and supervision. I would have had to take you to the nearest hospital." She touched her glasses. "What happened was a miracle. Some divine spirit," she looked up, "must love you very much."

"A miracle?"

"You did not wake iip after your attack. The delirium did not break out. You fell into a recuperative sleep."

"For two days."

"Naturally you've not recovered just because you've slept. We must get to Rome as fast as we can. Are you hungry?"

"No."

"I've been reading German newspapers. Very cautiously they mention that the man who escaped from a

mental institution could possibly have been a well-known actor. In his flight he was aided by a doctor. They give no names. Naturally the police know. Now do you see how important it was to leave Germany that quickly?"

"If the police know . . ."

"Then your film company will know too, naturally."

"That's not what I meant. The police will be looking for you too."

"Of course. They'll also know my name."

"How?"

"When I went to the hospital I had to identify myself. I told Dr. Trotha that I had treated you once and would recognize you."

"But. . . then charges will be brought against you too!"

"All I want is to get you to Rome. Then I shall return to Germany and surrender to the police. Don't look so aghast!"

"Natasha," I-said with difficulty, "why are you doing all this?" She lowered her head, her smile vanished.

"You know why."

"No. No. No." I said. "It's not true. It's because I remind you of Bruno Kerst. Because I drink too. Because you are compassionate. But not that, Natasha!"

"Yes," she said. "It is true. I love you."

It was very dark in the room. The storm rattled the windows; the faucet drip still loud. "I love you," said Natasha. Her hand covered mine. "Why you? I don't know. I love you. You will make me happy."

"I can't. You yourself said that no one can make another person happy."

"I said not for long. You will make me happy for a little while. That is all I want."

"Natasha," I said, 'Tm no good. I have only brought unhappiness to the women I've known. I've driven two of them to their deaths!"

"That's not true!"

"It is!"

"I don't care."

"But I do! Because—I" I stopped. I almost said, "I love you too." Did I have the right to say that? Was it true? Had I ever loved anyone but myself? Was it really possible that I could love someone?

No.

And so I continued, "I don't want to make you unhappy too. I don't ever want to hurt you. Had we met ten years ago . . . Today it is too late . . ."

"It's not yet too late for a little while."

"A little while is not good enough! I love you too much to—to ..."

"Now you've said it!"

"But it's not true! It's not quite true. It's not quite honest. Not honest enough for you."

"You're still thinking of Shirley."

"Yes, Natasha."

"I know. You've talked to her. In your sleep. But you also talked with me."

"What did I say?"

She shook her head. "Once something wonderful. But that's my secret."

"Natasha. Natasha. Why didn't we meet earher?"

"Because God didn't ordain it.'*

"God?'*

"Who else?"

"There is no future for us. I'll never be able to forget what has happened ... again and again I'll talk in my sleep ..."

"We will have to part soon. But we will have a little wonderful while together, Peter."

"What's a little wonderful while?"

"Everything," said Natasha.

"Nothing," I said.

"A little while of happiness—enough for a lifetime."

"But life goes on; one does not die. Loneliness, sadness, bitterness follow that little while of happiness."

"Let it."

"No," I said. "It's true. I love you too. But Natasha, I don't want to be the cause of your unhappiness. That's why I want to be alone, remain alone ... to dream of you ... to think how different it could have been had we met earlier ..."

"I love you. And you love me."

"Because I need you."

"That's not true."

"You know it is."

"I'm so glad that you need me! You'll need me once you have recovered your health too, if only for a little while!" Her cool, beautiful hands stroked my face. "I knew it the moment I saw you on that first morning in the hotel..."

"What did you know?"

"That I loved you. And you sensed it."

"No."

"I'm certain you did. Don't you remember ... When you tried to seduce me ..."

"I just thought that you .. . that you needed a man. I thought you were ready to ... I made a mistake."

She bent down and kissed my lips. Her cheek was on mine. "You were not wrong, Peter. You did not make a mistake. I was ready . . ." She clung to me, her kiss passionate. My arms closed around her. There was a knock. Natasha rose and straightened her glasses. "Avanti!"

A hotel porter bowed politely. "Scusi, signora, il Irene a Roma arrivera alle sette."

"Grazie, Benito. Facciamo le valigie."

Benito disappeared.

"We must pack," said Natasha. "The train arrives in an hour."

I remember very little of the trip to Rome and my arrival at the clinic. Natasha had given me a potent sedative before two men carried me on a stretcher from the hotel to the train. From time to time I awakened and always found Natasha by my side.

When I regained consciousness I was in a pleasant large room. Natasha looking wan and exhausted and a slight rosy-cheeked man in a white coat were standing near my bed. "Good morning, Mr. Jordan. I'm happy to make your acquaintance. Dr. Petrovna has already told me about you."

"Good morning, Professor."

"You're quite safe here. Whatever you've done, no one will take you to account until you are able to defend yourself. Now you must think only of regaining your health, Mr. Jordan."

He stepped to the window ^nd filled a syringe with the contents of an ampoule. I looked at Natasha. Her black eyes were moist.

"I must return to Misha. But I'll be back."

"Please," I said. "Please, come back."

"I promise."

I wanted to say: I love you. But I said, "I need you so."

She took my hand and held it to her cheek.

Professor Pontevivo, the injection ready, came to my bed. "If you would say good-by, Mr. Jordan. You'll be asleep in just a moment."

"For a long time?"

"Oh, yes," he answered. "For quite a long time."

"Take care, Natasha," I said. "Kiss Misha for me." She nodded and rose.

I turned over; the professor threw back the cover. I was still looking at Natasha's beautiful face. The needle jabbed my back. I think then I said, "I love—" Perhaps I only thought I said it. Natasha's face, the room melted into a gossamer nothingness and I fell into a long deep sleep.

6

Rome, June twenty-sixth, 1960.

Since I began to record this intimate account of my life more than three and a half months have passed. Almost six months since I came to Professor Pontevivo's clinic.

Winter gave way to summer, my illness to health, my fear to hope.

Bianca, the little white cat, completely recovered, purrs on my lap as I stroke her.

I think I have only a few events left to report.

I remember nothing of the first six weeks in Pontevivo's clinic. Deep narcosis induced an artificial hibernation, while in Germany swastikas were defacing synagogues, the French general Massu was removed from his position after bloody riots in Algeria, the Soviets had experimented with rockets in the Pacific, and Moscow presented an ultimatum to the West concerning Berlin.

While under narcosis I had lost thirty pounds. Very weak, I continued to be given infusions. Slowly my health returned under constant care.

Up to April eighth I did not leave my room. I received no mail, no newspapers. There was no radio in my room. I knew nothing of the bloody racial unrest in South Africa, nothing of Khrushchev's tumultuous visit to Paris, of

the second atom bomb detonated in the Sahara, of the assassination of Prime Minister Verwoerd in Johannesburg.

From April fifteenth on I was allowed German and English newspapers and received my first mail. Natasha wrote every second day. Since her letters were censored by an interpreter of the Italian court at the request of the Hamburg public prosecutor she wrote of her daily work, of Misha and other such inconsequential matters. Sometimes, Misha would enclose a drawing for me which Suora Maria Magdalena would hang in my room.

Other letters also censored arrived from Seaton, the Wilson Brothers and Herbert Kostasch. They expressed incredulity over what I had done but were obviously consoled by the turn of events. They offered financial and legal assistance and wanted to visit. I accepted the money. Visitors were not allowed. A lawyer I would not need until later.

A forwarded picture postcard from Rio de Janiero arrived. It said, "If Sugarloaf Mountain could think, it would imagine God to look like Sugarloaf Mountain." A detective brought the card and inquired about the sender of this strange greeting. Now that I knew Schauberg and Kathe had arrived in Brazil I could have told the truth. Brazil did not extradite people such as Schauberg.

The card had a postscript. "Going on to another country." I wanted to give Schauberg more time to find a safe haven so I told the detective that I had no knowledge of the sender. Months have passed and I have not heard from Schauberg again. I wonder if he is still aUve, if he and Kathe are happy together?

I wrote to Natasha, and my letters too were general and innocent. My mail would certainly be censored.

In April South Korea was in revolt and President Syng-man Rhee was overthrown; Southern Iran suffered an earthquake worse than that at Agadir. In Istanbul students revolted; Prime Minister Menderes resigned. I also read an obituary of a spinster who had worked forty

of her seventy-one years in a bookstore. It sharply reminded me that I was but one of millions, merely a single life; a selfish, miserable life in a world that also held people who were kindly, decent and conscientious.