The Berlin Connection (51 page)

On April twenty-seventh I received a notification from a Los Angeles lawyer. Joan had instituted divorce proceedings. She had also begun an action against me for the seduction of a minor and the instigation of an illegal abortion.

Two days later a bundle of newspaper clippings arrived from my friend Gregory Bates. Screaming headlines reported my crime. Joan had told reporters all she knew.

Under a hypocritical pretense of righteous indignation the tabloids and magazines were digging into the most intimate details of Shirley's and my relationship. Thanks to syndicated columnists the scandal developed its fullest impact exactly at the time my movie was premiered at one of Hollywood's best-known cinemas.

Two days later. May second, a telegram arrived from Kostasch who had been at the premiere.

SENSATIONAL SUCCESS. CRITICS ACCLAIM MOVIE BEST OF LAST FIVE YEARS. PETER JORDAN NEW AMERICAN STAR. MILLION-DOLLAR BUSINESS CERTAIN. GOD BLESS YOUR WIFE. SHE HELPED ENORMOUSLY. CONGRATULATIONS AND SPEEDY RECOVERY, KOSTASCH.

8

Poor Joan, she had really helped us. The critics were praising the movie and called me a truly great actor! The

notices and the scandal provided publicity beyond the wildest expectations of any agency men.

By May the film was playing in three thousand movie theaters in the USA. Synchronizations into fourteen languages were feverishly prepared.

It was also a certainty that Come Back would be nominated for an Oscar and was estimated to net at least thirty million dollars. I was a rich man.

In June the movie was shown in London, Paris and Vienna to quivering, eager audiences. The fact that I, at the time of my comeback, my artistic triumph, was ill in an Italian clinic, guarded by police, added a tragic touch—at least for the readers of tabloids and magazines. And it was they who went to see my movie—in spite of the heat of that summer!

In June too, the advertising campaign began in Italy. My eczema had now completely healed. The papers were full of stories of the scandal I had already read in EngUsh and German papers.

The carabiniers guarding me and the staff at the clinic brought postcard photographs of me and asked for my autograph.

Daily, film fans stood outside the high gates of the clinic. They too asked for autographs. I was told that gigantic placards were announcing Come Back all over Rome.

The June heat was excessive. Natasha and Kostasch had been trying for weeks to obtain permission to visit me but were always refused by the Hamburg pubHc prosecutor's office. I was still not allowed visitors and we continued to write vague innocent letters knowing that strangers read them first.

I continued to tell my story to the silently circling spools of the tape recorder. Lately I have been dictating in the park. I am tanned and look years younger. I still dreamt frequently of Shirley and often held her little golden cross in my hand while I taped my story. As deeply as I had loved Shirley, as constantly as the thought

of her still stirred me, with the passing of time the conclusion grew strongly that this was really Natasha's and my story I was telling and that Shirley had been but an interlude in my long restless search for the vibrant womanly love that meant Natasha.

In mid-May Pontevivo had hypnotized me for the first time. Thirteen more sessions followed until in June I was thoroughly examined. That examination took two days.

The professor asked me to his apartment on the upper floor of the clinic. It was an evening in mid-June.

I took the elevator for the first time without fear.

Pontevivo received me in his library, its walls lined with books to the ceiling. A well-stocked bar. The professor was smoking a large cigar, a drink in his hand. He was in an expansive mood as he looked at the report of my examination.

"You are in perfect health! Heart, liver, everything normal. You can live to be ninety, my dear Jordan. Naturally you can also indulge in a drink—^within reason. May I prepare one for you?"

I felt a strange misgiving.

"No, thank you."

"Just one whisky!"

"No, really. Thank you."

"Well, now. Today is a happy day—for all of us. A day to celebrate! As I told you, you can have a drink if you observe moderation. And during our fourteen sessions I have made sure that you will. One or two drinks a night won't hurt you. And I know you won't drink any more than that!"

"I really don't want a drink."

"Just one."

"No."

"Don't be childish. Just smell that aroma. Isn't it delicious? Really, you can believe me: it is not at all dangerous if you have one or two drinks!"

My uneasiness grew. The smoky aroma of the whisky I had once loved so much revolted me now.

"It makes me shudder," I said.

"Mr. Jordan, you're ridiculous."

"I'm sorry."

"You're not going to drink with me?"

"I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't?"

"There's something in me . . . I'm not putting on an act . .. Something in me resists ... I told you, I cannot drink!" I yeUed.

A door opened as soon as I had yelled and the two most powerful attendants in the clinic entered. They looked at Pontevivo who nodded.

Very quickly one attendant behind me held me in an unbreakable grip.

"Hold his nose," said the professor, quickly filling a glass with whisky. The second attendant held my nose. I was forced to open my mouth to breathe.

"And now a little drink," said Pontevivo.

"No ... no ..." I tried to step back but the attendant held me. I kicked at Pontevivo. He evaded me. The glass came closer, closer.

Suddenly I felt that fist.

I had not felt it stir in months.

There it was again.

"Don't . . . don't . , ."

The glass came still closer. Closer.

"Please, Professor ... I can't . . . I . . ."

"Yes?"

"I'm dying..."

The fist stirred. It rose. Toward my heart. Paradoxical. It was all wrong. Whisky used to save my life. Now it was going to kill me? My breathing was a rasp. The attendant held me powerfully.

"Professor . . . please . . . please ... the fist.. ."

The fist rose higher. Had I become insane? Was the professor mad?

"Hold him. Hold his nose."

"Don't. . don't..."

I squirmed. I whimpered. I kicked. Whisky flowed down my throat. I spluttered, gasped. Whisky splashed into me.

Fear, terrifying fear choked me while I fought for breath yet swallowed still more whisky.

The fist reached my heart, closed around it. I collapsed, falling into red flaming fog and I knew: This is death. Finally.

He killed me, this slight Professor Pontevivo, this figment of my still sick mind, this person that never really existed, this madman has killed me.

Finally.

He was sitting by the window, laughing. Only the little bedside lamp gave light. Behind him I saw the brightly lit facade of the Colosseum. I was in my room, in my bed. I said, "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"When I passed out, did you give me one . . . one of those injections?"

"The first and the last. How do you feel?"

"Wonderful."

"You made a fine mess of my carpet."

"You ought not to conduct experiments of that kind in your library."

"Ah, but yes. Once you leave here alcohol will not be offered to you in hospital rooms or laboratories but in hotels, bars, restaurants, on carpets, in luxurious surroundings. What's a carpet? It can be cleaned." He laughed

494

again. "You have no idea how often that carpet has already been cleaned!*'

"Now I understand what you meant when some time ago you said that you were going to remove one complex under hypnosis and substitute another."

"I hope that I have been successful, Mr. Jordan. I hoped to remove the complex that you are guilty of Wanda Norden's death. The new complex is that you feel you will die when you drink alcohol!" He rose. "If you remember I once said that a psychiatrist can change people. I have tried to do just that. Now you really can drink within reason. But since your past has proved that there are no reasonable limits for you as far as alcohol is concerned it is better you do not drink at all. Quite apart from the fact that for some time to come you won't have any opportunity to drink."

"I see. So that I would not drink you substituted a fear of drink."

"Fear of that fear. In the past you thought that you would die if you didn't drink. From now on you'll think you'll die if you do. Fear of the unknown is a basic and most powerful emotion of humanity."

"With me it is chiefly fear of death. I really did believe I was dying when you had that whisky poured into me."

"What do you imagine death to be—and whatever follows?"

"I don't know."

"That's what I said: fear of the unknown." He cleared his throat. "And now I must confess something to you. I'm not infallible. Even my method is not perfect. Nothing is. You could have a relapse even now."

"I could? How? Why should I?"

"Mr. Jordan, I know what happened that night in 1938 in Berlin. We both know that your guilt was not entirely unjustified. You left Wanda Norden to her fate when you

took that walk for an hour. That was the simple thing to do. You could have made another choice."

"To protect Wanda."

"Or at least tried to protect her." His voice was very low. "In everyone's life situations occur where one must choose between an expedient or more difficult solution. Sometime in the future you too will again have to make such decisions."

"Fm sure I will."

"If you really want to remain healthy and not again become what you once were you must in all future decisions find the strength, the will and the moral integrity to choose the right one—^which in all pi*obability will always be the more difficult one. If you do not..."

"Then everything will start all over again. I understand."

"That's correct. You are too intelligent not to develop another new guilt complex which will torment you. Because you are tormented you will want to escape. How? The way you know so well."

"I will drink again."

"Yes. Despite my post-hypnotic suggestions. Mr. Jordan, you are thirty-seven years old. It was stiU possible to cure you. Ten years later it would not be possible. I abhor pathos—^but you must change your life. From now on you must always choose the more difficult way. Only then will the success of my treatment endure."

The little white cat jumped on my bed. I stroked her.

"I have already made such a difficult choice."

"You have?"

"I would like you to send my tapes to the German court in Hamburg—as a confession."

His eyes lit up. Impetuously, he shook my hand. "I'm very happy, Mr. Jordan, very happy indeed! And I'd like you to accept the tape recorder as a present from me. Perhaps there will be something you will want to add, something which might be of interest to the court."

"Thank you very much, Professor."

"You're most welcome. I'm sorry but now I must notify the police that I consider you cured. You will not be able to stay here much longer."

"I'm sorry too, Professor," I said while Bianca purred on my lap. "I really am."

10

Come Back was premiered in Rome on June twenty-fourth. The critics were as enthusiastic as was the public.

Since the premiere the number of autograph hunters had risen sharply. As I could hardly sign autographs aU day a notice had been placed on the tall gates:

SIGNORE PETER JORDAN DA AUTOGRAMMI SOLTANTO DALLE 16 ALLE 18

On the twenty-sixth two German police inspectors presented their credentials and a warrant for my arrest. The warrant had been countersigned by the public prosecutor in Rome.

Both men were most polite and pleasant. They assured me that since they were certain their trust in me was not misplaced they would gladly dispense with handcuffs to avoid any unpleasant attention. We were to leave by plane for Hamburg at eleven-thirty on the twenty-seventh.

I wound up my affairs, paying my bills, handing out tips until in the late afternoon my fans were beginning to call for me.

"Signore Jordan! Signore Jordan, per favore..."

"Venite qui! Venite qui, prego!"

"Pietro Jordan! Pietro Jordan! Maledetto Pietro!"

"Vicino da noi!"

Despite the incredible heat of that summer's day at least a hundred people were crowded outside the gates

holding out photographs and autograph books damp with perspiration for me to sign.

The carabinier sitting in the shadow of a tree laughed at me as I walked to the gate. At first they had always escorted me. What could happen? The gate was closed and tall; the guard stood outside his guardhouse.

I wore linen trousers and a blue short-sleeved shirt and as soon as I arrived applause greeted me. Acclaim today, tomorrow I would be in a Hamburg prison. How strange life could be.

They passed photographs and books through the iron gate, and I wrote and wrote and wrote: "Cordialmente, Peter Jordan. Coi miei complimenti, Peter Jordan."

"Grazie, Signore, grazie!"

They kept coming, more and more people, more and more arms stretched through the iron bars of the gate. And I wrote and wrote.

They stood close to the gate but at the edge of the crowd. At first I saw Misha, who laughed at me silently. Then I saw Natasha.

11

Natasha in a white^ low-cut dress emblazoned with; bri<:ht glowing colors, a red scarf over her black hair. The lenses of her glasses were dark. She held a book in her hand; Misha, a photograph.

I continued to sign autographs and slowly made my way toward her. She spoke English. No one paid any attention to her. The people were all looking at me, wantinglj my signature.

"I've been here a week. They let me go with the .. child—I said I was going to Austria." 1]

"Thev are taking me back to Hamburg tomorrow. At I eleven-thirty." j

"I'm going to give you your photograph now. Underneath it is Bruno's passport. It has a valid visa for the Congo."

"A visa?"

"In Bruno's name. It was quite easy. They know me at the consulate in Hamburg. I'm going to follow you with the boy in the fall."

"That's crazy. We can't do that."

"You must not go to prison. I don't want to lose you. Before you reach the airport tomorrow morning a man wiU act as though he had been hit by the car taking you there. I've found an old artist... You'll be able to escape ... There is a plane for Leopoldville at ten-thirty. They will hold the plane until you get there. The ticket is inside the passport. The Congo does not extradite ..."

Now Misha gave me his photograph. He was still* laughing at me. He seemed very happy to see me again.

Then I held the photograph and the passport which Natasha handed me. Her face was pale, but behind the dark lenses of her glasses her vivid black eyes were aflame with a mad passion.

"I'll be there to help you, should it become necessary ..."

I passed just the photo back to her. A new one was pushed into my hand right away. Natasha stood close, very close to me. Her beautiful lips formed words that I readily understood. She pulled Misha along with her and in a moment had disappeared into the crowd of people who continued to hold out photographs to me through the bars of the fence.

"Per favore, Signore ..."

"Grazie, Signore!"

The passport which had belonged to Misha's dead father was now in my trouser pocket.

That night I took a closer look at it.

The visa was valid for a year and renewable. There was also an international vaccination certificate signed by the doctor who had vaccinated me as was required by the Congo. The doctor's name was Dr. Natasha Petrovna.

On the ticket, flight 413 from Rome on June twenty-seventh, 1960, was noted that Herr Bruno Kefst was. coming by train from Hamburg. The plane would wait as long as was reasonably possible since the train arrived rather late from Germany.

* While I heard the steps of the carabinier on the gravel below my room and the chirping of the crickets I looked at those three documents which, with a bit of luck, meant freedom for me.

It was probably an easy country into which to disappear or where false passports were readily obtainable. Or one could simply stay there. I was rich now. Kostasch would surely be able to make payments to me through an account under some fictitious name.

And I would be free! I would remain free! Now that I was healthy I must be free. Otherwise I would surely go to prison, if not in Germany first, and in the States later.

The ticket. The vaccination certificate. Valid visa. Valid passport. I had everything I needed. And Natasha would follow in the fall.

Fall was only a few months away.

Rome was a busy airport. It was simply impossible to check all passengers for a man who had escaped when someone appeared to be hit by his car; nor could anyone be sure that such a man, probably with a newly assumed name, had even taken a plane out of Rome.

500

How long did a flight to Leopoldville take? Two hours? Three? Four?

What could two German detectives do in a city strange to them in three or Tour hours? They could alert the police of Europe, Africa and America. To look for whom? Where? What could they really do? Very little. Nothing.

When I had been asked by the two German inspectors how at Christmas I had crossed into Italy, I declared: "With my own American passport."