Iron Gustav (45 page)

Soon the girls in these shops greeted him with a familiar, an almost sisterly smile – as if he belonged there. At times one of them would sit on the arm of his chair and assure him that Madame looked dazzling again today; she had an adorable figure. The bosom perhaps a trifle too full – but men liked that, didn't they? Smiles … and they glided off, with a gentle sway of the buttocks.

Heinz racked his brains wondering what these girls thought about him; whether they took him for Tinette's lover or brother, whether they were out to torment him or whether they knew him for what he really was – a dependant, a slave who no longer needed to be in chains, because much stronger, invisible ties held him … Ties that bound him ever tighter and sent him ever more swiftly into the abyss.

Back home again, it was there she was least desirous of being left alone. She wanted to talk about a thousand things she had noticed and of which he had seen nothing; she took him up to her dressing room, she changed in front of him. Sometimes her maid was present, sometimes not … She laughed, prattled away – he had only to throw in a ‘Yes' or a ‘No', while he sat half mad with longing, feeling like some hunger-crazed animal which sees food but also the fatal trap containing it … He trembled, despising himself and her but himself more – and yet he would not have missed a single hour of that torment.

Once, when he could bear it no longer, almost groaning with pain he exclaimed: ‘Oh, Tinette, please! Please, Tinette!'

She turned to him.

‘Oh, you're not suffering, are you, my friend?' She smiled. ‘You're like my own brother, aren't you?'

She went up to him. He fell on his knees before her and pressed kisses on the strip of flesh between garter and knicker.

She
laughed and ruffled his hair. ‘Oh dear, Henri,' she said lightly, ‘you must get used to it. A soldier can only prove his valour under fire, you know that!'

With a laugh she freed herself and returned to the dressing table, where she went on talking as if it had all gone out of her mind immediately.

Ever deeper and ever more swiftly downwards.

He thought only of her. He dreamed only of her. Yet he did not wish to possess her. A slave is without possessions. His ignominy, his disgrace – those are his possessions and pleasure.

He continued on his way. At times he was even proud – proud of being able to discover this world. He never for a moment considered whether this world was worth discovering.

He entered the villa, and went into the bedroom. Tinette lay in bed, perhaps still asleep. Under his gaze, she slowly awoke. She stretched, yawned, and from the warmth of the bed came her hand, which he could kiss. Or else she stretched her leg from under the covers, and said that she had cramp and he must give her a massage.

Brother, as much as sister, the prisoner of instinct, slave of lust, in love with suffering – Eva Hackendahl and Heinz Hackendahl alike. Ever deeper downwards.

While the year 1918 ended in bloody street-fighting, the year 1919 began even more bloodily and with more militant strikes. On his way to Dahlem, Heinz was searched twenty times for weapons, on the one hand by the Civil Guards, on the other by the Military Guards – the so-called Noskitos (under General Noske) – and then by the Spartacists and, on the next corner, by the Independents. Meanwhile, the barbed-wire entanglements of trench warfare were to be found in the streets of Berlin, and everywhere there were notices: ‘Halt! Anyone proceeding further will be shot!'

Meanwhile, cannon were being fired at Police Headquarters, the Berlin Schloss and the Imperial stables, the sailors were settling a wage rise – while at the same time fighting for a National Assembly or a
Soviet state, and also negotiated for better armistice conditions – and the Spartacists were promising the workers a six-hour day, and Liebknecht and Rosa Luxemburg were being shot. Simultaneously, hunger grew, murders increased and the troops returned from the Front dispersed themselves and joined the masses. Uniform upon uniform returned, and only a few groups remained armed, at the wish of the government, or with its permission, or else in defiance of it. At this time, the general death rate in Berlin ‘only' tripled, but death from pneumonia increased eighteen times.

And while all this was going on Heinz Hackendahl, under Tinette's guidance, was becoming acquainted with Berlin nightlife. That winter very many bars had opened and every week saw new ones added to their number; all were very much alike, living on pimping and prostitution; their customers drank heavily and in a hurry, as if someone stood behind them to snatch the glass from their lips.

Here then was Heinz Hackendahl, seventeen-year-old schoolboy, in a wine bar. The dress of the lady with him was not more open than the dresses of those other ladies parading their seductive whispers from table to table; neither was it less so. The jazz band (it had to have if possible at least one black deserter from the army of Occupation on the Rhine) was clamorous. And then they all sang in English … And Heinz could feel the champagne going to his head; he talked faster and faster while Tinette was splitting her sides with laughter … Yes, he was released at last, laughing at himself as he told her how timid he had been at first and how he had not even dared to look at her. But now he was sitting next to her, a champagne glass in his hand …

The music stopped. Swiftly, noisily, the iron shutters rolled down. In a shaking voice the manager asked the ladies and gentlemen to be quiet a moment. A small crowd of unemployed had collected outside … The police would be coming any moment.

But before anyone could speak or even set down a glass, the lights went out … Darkness … The ends of cigarettes glowed, a woman laughed shrilly, a man burst out with ‘Sickening rubbish!'

Then there was silence, for through the shutters penetrated a buzzing sound, malignant as from a furious swarm of bees, a hum
that rose and fell – and now and then they thought they could distinguish voices …

Suddenly all understood that this was no casual meeting of unemployed in the square outside, but a demonstration against that particular bar. They had heard the shouts of ‘Down with the profiteers!'

Suddenly the street door burst open, glass splintered.

‘Not a visitor here – my word of honour!' screamed the manager.

Then the lights flashed on. Obviously one of the waiters was in league with the crowd outside; however large the tips there was always a traitor. Three or four soldiers in field-grey were standing in the entrance, looking at the frightened faces.

‘Come out, the lot of you,' said one of them grinning maliciously. ‘We want to say goodnight to you.'

The guests sat as if thunderstruck. ‘This is scandalous!' called out one, and broke off when he met the soldier's eye. ‘Well, hurry up, or shall I give you a hand?' cried the soldier still more threateningly. And he pointed to his belt, where hand grenades hung.

A guest rose. ‘I've come from the trenches,' he declared. ‘I hold the Iron Cross. I demand that you inform the people outside.'

‘Go and tell them yourself, my boy!' replied the man in field-grey, giving the other a push so that he reeled to the door, where a second field-grey with another push assisted him into the street. One heard a dull roar, shouts, a scream …

‘I won't go out,' yelled someone. ‘I'm not going to let them beat me to death. There must be an exit at the back.'

‘Come on with you!' The soldier reached out – the guest hit back. There was a short scuffle, then he too was thrown outside and once more the riot in the street became audible.

‘Man, be sensible,' implored someone. ‘I'll give you a hundred marks if you'll let us go to the lavatory or the courtyard.'

‘Three hundred from me!'

‘A thousand!'

‘Offer him five hundred, Bubi. I have some money with me,' whispered Tinette. ‘Offer a thousand.'

‘A thousand!'

‘Oh,
no, we'd only become rich then. But we want no money from profiteers … Our kids are starving and you dirty dogs swill champagne!'

‘Come on, come on,' cried the field-greys, who were increasing in number. Others were coming in from the street, civilians too; angry faces, pale, lined faces, rough faces. They dragged the chairs from underneath the guests, they pushed men and women towards the entrance.

‘Clear up the joint from the back. Watch the doors! Don't let anyone go to the lavatory. Don't let yourself be diddled by the women.'

‘My things! My fur coat!' screamed a woman, defending herself vigorously.

‘Fetch them tomorrow, love. I doubt if your fur will survive unscathed.'

A gentleman got on a chair. ‘It's madness to let ourselves be pushed out one by one – it'll only be ten times worse for each. I suggest we all go out in single file, close together, a gentleman and then a lady, and so on. Come on … I'll go in front. Come along, Ella, keep close … And get through as quickly as you can. Oskar, behind Ella!'

‘Here, wait, you've been to the Front, comrade,' said the field-grey. ‘Why are you swilling champagne with profiteers? Here, wait a bit!'

‘Didn't we swill in the trenches?' cried the man angrily. ‘Didn't you go to a pub sometimes and have one? This is my pub!'

‘Wait – I'll let you out through the yard, comrade!'

‘No, thanks. I'll share what the others get. Now, all behind one another! Come on, Ella.' And he made for the entrance, the others following. Through the open door came the bellowing of the impatient crowd.

‘Come on, Tinette, we mustn't be the last.'

Tinette was very pale, but not from fright. ‘Fetch my coat!' she commanded. ‘Nonsense! I won't go in the street half naked.'

They were outside.

‘Another chap with a tart,' jeered someone.

The dimly lit square roared with a thousand throats, screaming, threatening, laughing, mocking … a mass of dark faces, many women there …

‘Hurry
up, Tinette. Keep close behind me. For heaven's sake don't let go of my coat.'

A man with arms raised to protect himself rushed into the narrow passage left by the crowd and Heinz hurried after, he too protecting his face with his arms and keeping his head well down. He could feel Tinette clinging to him.

On either side people struck and screamed at him. ‘Profiteer! Traitor! Shirker! Pimp! Tart's lapdog!' A woman spat on him. Blind to everything, hardly feeling the blows in his excitement, he pressed forward, anxious only not to lose touch with the powerfully built man in front who was forging ahead through the crowd like a battering ram, clearing a passage with his broad shoulders, brushing aside those who tried to stop him, but never answering or hitting back – irresistibly forging ahead.

In all that turmoil, amid people who spat and struck at him, Heinz was comforted to feel Tinette's grip on his back, sometimes firm, sometimes weak, but always there; he was not able to look round or to say anything. Once he cried out. A woman had stabbed him in the cheek, possibly with a knitting needle, getting past his arm. A swift, burning pain, followed by the soothing trickle of blood …

Would it never end? It was only a small open space which at other times one could cross in two minutes; yet it felt as if he had been there hours. On and on, ever deeper into the crowd whose blows and abuse had lost nothing of their force. Somebody tripped him and he might have fallen but for the grip on his back.

Suddenly it was all over – one last weak cuff … He saw the big man in front of him turn and make for the pale-faced lad who had struck out. Here stood only spectators attracted by the noise. The square was behind them. They were in a street.

‘You strike me, eh, you dirty scamp?' shouted the big man, infuriated by the humiliation he had undergone. ‘Come on, I'll give it to you.' And he went for the retreating lad, while those around muttered.

‘Come on, come on,' urged Tinette. ‘Let's get away from here. I've had enough of it.'

Side by side they hurried on in the middle of the road, faces – inquisitive, malicious, frightened – looking at them. They turned a
corner and Heinz took Tinette's arm. ‘Shall we get a car?' he panted. ‘You weren't hurt, were you, Tinette?'

She pushed his arm away. ‘Don't touch me!' she almost screamed. ‘You're one of these – these Germans!'

‘Tinette, they're half starved and poor, they don't know what they're doing. And after all perhaps it wasn't quite right of us to go into such places at a time like this. These people have had to endure terrible suffering. Naturally they're envious.' He spoke incoherently, excitedly. Although they had beaten him up and cursed him, he felt they were justified. He was on their side, because he understood them. Still in his confusion, because he said to himself that he was confused, he felt he was perhaps worse than them. ‘What do you think, Tinette?'

‘Yes, that's what you're all like,' she said bitterly. ‘Just because you're gloomy and drab and dull you hate brightness, gaiety and laughter. You'd like to make the whole world as gloomy and drab as yourselves. You kill anything that's cheerful.'

We used to be cheerful, he thought. It isn't true what she says. Our gaiety disappeared in these last terrible years. Or weren't we ever gay?

‘You Germans,' she went on feverishly, ‘all you love is Death. You're always talking about it, about dying; one must know how to die, you keep on saying. You fools, anybody can die. One must learn how to live! Yes, one must understand life. Oh, when I think of the lovely happy life there is in my own country! I haven't been able to laugh since I came here.'

‘That's not true, Tinette,' he cried. ‘Look how often you've cheered us up with your laughter!'

She wasn't listening. ‘That's the reason why you started this war, because you hate laughter, you hate life. You wanted the whole world to be as boring and serious as you are yourselves. But you lost the war!'