Authors: Ernst Haffner
Linienstrasse, the section between Neue König- and Prenzlauer Strasse, is all secondhand dealers, one after another. They all deal in old shoes. Ludwig stumbles down into one basement. Willi waits on the street with the sacks. “Come on down!” calls Ludwig. The sacks are emptied out in front of the counter, and the dealer picks out what he thinks he can use. Eleven pairs meet his standards. Price? Ludwig notes the numbers, consults his list: “Those eleven pairs … come to … eight marks twenty.” The dealer checks each individual shoe and boot, frowns, as the boys had done when they were buying. He offers them seven marks. Ludwig wants seven-fifty, and they finally settle on seven marks and twenty-five pfennigs. Their first transaction is in the bag. They undertake to supply the dealer on a regular basis. Outside, Ludwig is jubilant: “That’s a great price! Thirty pfennigs over our markup!”
The second dealer is a bit stickier, but he still ends up taking five pairs for three marks. “Not bad either,” Ludwig grins, outside. With the next dealer, it’s “Papa’s just out getting a shave,” and a fourth is only willing to pay peanuts. “Nothing doing, sir.” Ludwig shows him the cold shoulder. “Good
wares for a good price.” In the Grosse Hamburger Strasse, a woman dealer buys up their remaining stock. Thirteen pairs. Twelve pairs bought, the thirteenth thrown in, for goodwill. She’ll not buy thirteen, thirteen is unlucky. But she pays a good price for twelve. Twelve marks. The boys roll up their empty sacks, and their first thought is to hightail it out of the dangerous area. On the bus they count their takings: twenty-two marks and twenty-five pfennigs! Deduct their investment of eight marks, leaves a profit margin of fourteen marks and twenty-five pfennigs. “All in one day, Willi! And we’ve earned it!” Over a glass of beer they relax and speculate on the future. And then it’s back to work. Today’s harvest, twelve pairs, needs to be put in shape.
Frau Bauerbach asks what happened with registering with the police. Their exhilarated mood is quickly deflated. Did they really forget for the whole of one day that they are borstal youths, wanted by the police? They buy registration forms, fill them in with made-up details, and Frau Bauerbach has them countersigned by the concierge. She is grateful to the boys for offering to take them to the police station for her and saving her the journey. When they come back after a while and say, “All done, Frau Bauerbach, we’re legal,” they feel choked with anxiety. If she demands to see the officially stamped registration forms, they’re toast. They’d have to go back to the gang. But Frau Bauerbach is a credulous soul. “Lovely! Now, what about some coffee?” “No, thank you, not just yet,” replies Ludwig, as his fear turns into quiet glee. That was close. Now, live discreetly and keep a lookout, and everything might still turn out okay.
The twelve pairs of shoes are fixed up and cleaned. For supper they treat themselves to some fresh rolls, butter and
boiled ham. They’ve bought a few oranges as well. It’s Christmas in a fortnight. Christmas? Where were we this time last year? Willi was in the institution. Ludwig needs to think about it for a long time. Then it comes to him: how could he have forgotten? Half-starved, and without an abode for a long time. If he managed to pick up two marks in the Tiergarten for sex, he felt rich. So rich that he could afford to eat for a day, and spend a night on a bedbug-infested mattress. “Oh, Willi, if only we could stay here at Mother Bauerbach’s … when I think about going back to the gang now … No, anything but that … anything but that!” They go to bed. The next day it’s the turn of Kaiser-Friedrich-Strasse. “Good morning. We’re paying up to two marks …”
16
THE BLOOD BROTHERS ARE INCREASINGLY TURNING
into a gang of professional criminals. Hunger? A thing of the past! Running around in rags and with no home? We’re past that. Fred, the influencer and seducer, has the gang firmly in his grip. Heinz and Georg, who to begin with put up some resistance, are dazzled by the amount of money so effortlessly earned, and all of them have now dismissed their doubts. Ludwig and Willi, the two prize idiots, have apparently got themselves nabbed again by the cops. The profitable pickpocketing excursions to department stores and weekly markets and market halls are continued.
But there are new opportunities too: break-ins, auto thefts! The loot always winds up back at godfather Gotthelf’s, and is then farmed out to fences. Stolen cars are immediately driven by Fred (the only one who can drive) to someplace in the provinces. There, there are various helpers’ helpers, who spray the cars and move them on. A stolen car in good nick can bring in three to five hundred marks. And Fred won’t even look at rotten cars. For instance, take the day before yesterday: the Adler that Fred picked up outside a bar in the West End. It still smelled of factory. Of course Fred filled her up and roared off down to Leipzig.
Jonny is sitting with the rest of the boys at godfather Gotthelf’s on Badstrasse. They are waiting for Fred, he had reckoned to be back by six. Here comes a post cyclist with a wire for Gotthelf. “Who’s sending me love letters by express delivery then!?” Damn, that’s Fred’s writing, thinks Jonny. A scribbled note:
Jonny, the police are on my tail, but they’re keeping their distance. Clear Badstrasse right away, and run. Go to Ulli’s. If I can get away this time I’ll see you there at midnight. Watch yourselves, maybe you have a visitor already. Fred.
They all stand there, trembling and pale. Only Gotthelf, the old jailbird, remarks casually: “Oh, Gollnow’s not such a bad place …” Jonny tells everyone to wrap the stolen loot, consisting mainly of ladies’ silk stockings, into small parcels. Then he goes out on the street to see if there’s any sign of the coppers yet.
He knows he can be arrested at any moment. Calmly he stands there in the doorway, puffs at a cigarette and looks idly left and right. As usual in the early evening, there’s a lot of people out and about on Badstrasse. But no sign of anything out of the ordinary. After a quarter of an hour, he gives orders for the goods to be shifted to Ulli’s summer house. At intervals of a few minutes, the boys go off, one by one, each with a small parcel, to 80th Street, Section 2 (provisional). As luck would have it, Ulli is home. In return for a share, he agrees to put up the goods and the Blood Brothers both. An hour later, the move is complete. Gotthelf’s apartment is clean. Now let the cops come. “A fence? What, me? You’d need to come up with some sort of evidence for that first, sirs.”
On the last trip to Ulli’s, Jonny stops off and buys a roll of greaseproof paper. All the goods are wrapped up in that. A hole is dug behind the summer house: put all the stuff in there. Stamp it down, pour a couple of pails of gravel over the
top. No sign of anything. So as not to betray the dark summer house, Ulli keeps the stove fed with coke, which produces a minimum amount of smoke. Four of the Brothers are sent out to buy two blankets apiece. There’s no shortage of money. To spend a winter’s night in a summer house is a chilly pleasure. Rum and sugar are bought, and food. Before long, they’re all sitting in front of a blazing stove, quietly discussing whether Fred will have managed to give the police the slip. The howling wind whistles, and rain lashes the small, thickly draped window. It’s so warm in the summer house that the damp wooden walls are steaming.
It’s long past midnight, and still no sign of Fred. The Blood Brothers are lying on their blankets, completely dressed. Who knows, they may have to scarper at a moment’s notice. Finally, at almost two, there’s the noise of a dog barking. It’s Fred’s signal! But the boys still don’t make a move. Only when a solid object is scraped against the door, up and down, down and up, are they certain that it’s Fred. Happy, totally wet through, but not in the least out of sorts, Fred flops onto a blanket. “Hey there, boys! Just fix me up a grog first, will you?” He gulps down the hot strong drink and lights a cigarette. “I laughed! I just went by Gotthelf’s in a taxi. Have you any idea how many detectives are hanging around there? I saw three right off, two in the rain on the other side of the street in an entrance, and one in Gotthelf’s passageway. Hunkered down in a corner, pretending to be an alkie! They must have been desperate to meet us …”
Once Jonny has put in that the goods are safe, Fred starts to talk. The garage in Leipzig where he first took the car must have been under police observation, because from that point on he was always in company wherever he went. He of course
couldn’t go to the fellow who was supposed to take the car off his hands. By suddenly leaping onto a passing tram, he shook off the police. There they were again at the main Leipzig station, though they apparently missed Fred climbing onto the Berlin train. But then the Leipzig police must have wired Fred’s details to Berlin, because when he got to Anhalter Bahnhof, there were two officers standing there who let him pass, but who then set off on his tail to find Fred’s hidey-hole, and if possible his companions in crime as well. He wrote the wire on the hoof; luckily he had paper and stamps on him. And in the crush of Potsdamer Platz, an opportunity presented itself to post the letter unobserved. What set them on to the address in Badstrasse …
Anyway, it seemed the Blood Brothers had been under observation for some time now. Fred gave the officers the slip in the Friedrichstrasse branch of Aschinger’s. The way to the toilets was down a corridor that led out to Krausenstrasse. The officers stood outside the Friedrichstrasse entrance, waiting for Fred to emerge. Waiting, waiting … Fred had avoided the area around Badstrasse and Koloniestrasse. Till he took that late-night taxi, and saw that their hiding place on Badstrasse was already surrounded.
“For the moment, you can stay here; it’s not so bad, unless the weather turns really cold,” proposes Ulli. Ulli knows the Blood Brothers have money, and he’ll do pretty much anything for money. “Fred,” begins Jonny, “you and I had better disappear for a few weeks till the hue and cry is gone. We could go to Magdeburg, and do the job there. You know the one … That’s at least a couple of thou. The rest of you,” he turns to the other Blood Brothers, “you can stay here, and carry on by yourselves. Only weekly markets, though. The
department stores are getting twitchy. Ulli, how would you fancy a trip to Magdeburg? There’s three hundred in it for you …” “What’s the job?” asks Ulli. “A pretty harmless affair. I don’t know the details. An old mucker of mine is in charge.”
Ulli says he’s agreeable. Jonny gets everything ready for their departure on the early train. Konrad is to take over the gang during Jonny’s absence. Ulli leaves his summer house to the Brothers staying in Berlin. The buried goods are to remain where they are. It’s too risky to try and flog them now. A couple of brief hours of sleep. Fred, Jonny and Ulli pack a small traveling case each. Outside it’s still pitch black and rainy. On Koloniestrasse they hail a taxi: “Potsdamer Bahnhof.” Individually, with no sign that they know one another, they buy train tickets and board the train. Not until it moves off, and there are no signs of anything suspicious, do they link up. Thank God, they’re clear of Berlin for the time being.
On reaching Magdeburg, Fred and Ulli wait in a breakfast place opposite the station, and Jonny goes off in search of his mate, one Frenchy Felix, who’d needed to get out of Berlin. Frenchy lives with his sweetheart on Fette-Hennen-Gasse. Where is Fette-Hennen-Gasse? On the Alter Markt, near the gaudy town hall. Fette-Hennen-Gasse is the Magdeburg equivalent of Berlin’s Mulackstrasse. Only the warped little cottages in Magdeburg are a couple of hundred years older than those of the Berlin red-light district. Jonny picks his way up a steep narrow wooden stair; each step yields an inch or two, but complains with creaking and asthmatic wheezing. An unmistakable sign for the residents that there’s a stranger about. The residents stick close to the wall when they go upstairs, and the stairs remain silent. At the top, it takes a very long time before there’s an answer
to Jonny’s knocking. He can hear whispered consultation inside. “Felix … it’s Jonny here, Jonny from Berlin.” Thereupon the door is unlocked.
A bull of a man stands in front of Jonny, wearing a skimpy nightshirt: “Jonny! Well, this is a surprise! Come in!” In the only bed, more alert and curious than demure, lies Felix’s sweetheart, the prostitute Paula. Flattened corkscrew curls, in a fetching canary yellow, frame the delicate and attractive face. The great lunk Felix only likes to bestow his favors and protection to girls under fifty kilos. “Are you here for the matter I think you’re here for, Jonny?” “Yes, Felix. I brought a couple of the boys with me. One you know: Fred.” “Fred? He’ll do.” Felix turns to his sweetheart: “Cutie-pie, will you get up? My friend wants coffee, and so do I.” Cutie-pie jumps up, and first hurries to the mirror to sort out her hair. The rest, her delicate figure under the sheer nightie, she doesn’t mind the boy seeing. Thank God everything’s still where it ought to be, nothing roly-poly about her.
After breakfast Jonny and Felix head for Bahnhofstrasse, where Ulli and Fred are waiting. Felix and Fred know each other, but what about this other guy, Ulli? If Jonny’s brought him, he’s sure to be on the level. First thing, they leave the restaurant. Magdeburg is small. They talk over their plan in a quiet workingmen’s bar on Jacobstrasse. They’ll need three days to case the house. The job is set for Saturday night. The place itself is no problem. The inhabitants have gone away, a cleaning woman comes once a week. There’s nothing in the nature of an alarm. Sure, they won’t be able to go through the front door, which is iron-plated inside and out, and the locks are new and sophisticated too. So there’s no other way for it than in through the butcher’s shop, and up through
the ceiling. The butcher himself lives four doors away, and there’s no one in the shop at night.
Kühleweinstrasse, just off Nordpark, lies there deathly quiet. A few isolated lights on in some of the houses. Magdeburg is a law-abiding town of sober habits, and Kühleweinstrasse doesn’t buck the trend. At half past two in the morning, Felix and Jonny are standing outside the butcher’s. The shop doesn’t have any valuables, and isn’t particularly well secured. The two locks on the door … well, put it this way, they’re not the most challenging Frenchy’s ever seen.