The Berlin Connection (3 page)

up to my departure from Los Angeles this cross, hanging from a thin chain, had been resting between Shirley's warm, firm breasts. After saying good-by (my wife stood aside crying) Shirley secretly pressed the amulet into my hand as I was already passing the gate. Since then I had been carrying it around with me, holding it in my hand at negotiations, production conferences, at the first screen test. This little cross had always inspired me with courage even though as a symbol it held no significance for me, since I did not believe in Shirley's God. But to me it seemed to be a part of her; she had worn it for a long time; it seemed as if I touched her velvety young skin, her young firm body, and every time I touched the cross it gave me courage, as it did now.

"Wait ..." He stopped. I didn't care what this waiter would think.

"There are one hundred marks on the desk. Take the money and do me a favor ..." -- ■

"Surely, Mr. Jordan."

This storm. This storm drove me crazy.

"In a minute my ..." I stopped; the fist prodded my heart and the terrifying fear returned.

"Don't you feel well, sir?"

"Just. . . just swallowed some air .. ."

There he stood in the light and smiled patiently. There I was, writhing in the darkness, feeling death reach out for me, yes, death. And managed to squeeze out these words, "My production . . . manager will arrive any minute. I promised him ... a bottle of whisky . . . and forgot to get it. Would you . .."

"I'll send a busboy."

"But. . . right away ..."

"Certainly."

"Before . . . breakfast . . ." Did not matter. Did not matter what he thought.

The fear. The fear.

"I'll take care of it right away. Would you like Canadian whisky or Scotch?"

"Scotch ..." The fist. It reached my heart. It opened. Now it would close.

"A particular brand?"

"Any ... Scotch."

"Would you like it gift-wrapped?"

"What?"

"I mean, it is a present."

"No . . . yes ... I don't care . . . just. *. . bring . . . it."

He bowed. Was his smile ironical? No matter. He left. The door closed. Simultaneously the giant fist closed. It had been too much.

I was violently pulled upright, felt my head hitting the wall and screamed for the second time. My brain stUl registered how I fell sideways out of bed, puUing the telephone, ashtray and the Uttle lamp with me.

I plunged into flaming red fog. The tiny cross of gold was in my hand and I had a ridiculous, absurd feeling of triumph as I thought: No doctor came near me, Shirley.

And then I died.

I remember the moment precisely. Hamburg. October twenty-seventh, 1959..

I am a wicked, corrupted man. The story I am relating here will be bad and wicked.

I am telling this story to two people: my doctor and my judge. My doctor must know the truth to be able to help me. My judge must know the truth to judge me.

Today is Thursday, March third, 1960. My watch shows eleven minutes past eleven. It is already very warm in Rome. From my window I see a deep blue and cloudless sky. My room is very comfortable. In contrast

to many other windows in this house mine has no bars and there is a door with a knob. Professor Pontevivo says he trusts me.

The Italian police have no such trust in me. It is not surprising if one considers all I have done since that storm-whipped October morning in Hamburg and this peaceful March morning in Rome.

Since the German authorities appHed for my extradition the Italian poHce have been guarding me. Since I am very ill I will not be handed over—not yet. Professor Pontevivo has accomplished that. He is a famous physician and the authorities listened to Irim when he stated, "I refuse to be responsible if this man is removed from my care."

A carabinier is walking up and down the lovely park of the hospital. By and by I know all those changing shifts every eight hours. Day and night. They are young, they are curious; I'm sure they know what I have done. That is why they are often looking up to my window. And I begin to know their faces.

Magnolias, white, cream-colored and rose-red magnolias are flowering in the park. A sea of yellow forsythias is shining. Small, pink almond trees are bordering the drive. I can see a profusion of blue and salmon-colored crocuses, snowdrops and white and black pansies. There had been a gentle rain during the past night and now the new leaves of the olive trees, laurel stonepines, palms and eucalyptus bushes wear a bright fresh green full of new life. Full of life is this park with its high barbed-wire topped wall which encloses the park on all sides. Through the tops of old trees, behind the wall on the Viale Parco di Celio I can see the fourth and uppermost story of the Colosseum, its smooth outer wall, the flat Corinthian pilasters, and the rectangular windows through which the blue sky is visible.

Yesterday I began to tell my story into a small, gleaming microphone. The day before and the day before that I tried, too. As soon as the green hght of the tape recorder

was switched on and the tapes began to whirr I broke out in a cold sweat. My heart beat furiously and I became so dizzy I had to lie down and close my eyes.

I panicked and thought, "I am not able to talk logically, I cannot form sentences. I am insane." Even if I forced myself to record my story it would be incomprehensible, because my brain is not able to think clearly and form sentences that would have meaning.

During the last two days I repeatedly told Professor Pontevivo, "Why don't you give up? I am incurable. My brain is damaged."

And he replied, "When you awoke from the deep narcosis you were eager to tell me all that had happened. You were not able to formulate your thoughts as quickly as the words left your mouth and that is why I could not understand you."

"That proves Fm crazy."

"You have received a great amount of medication. I can assure you that no patient has reacted any different than you following this treatment. Who suggested you tell your story to a tape recorder?"

"I did."

"And why?"

"Because I believed I could talk more easily to a machine than to another person."

"That was not the reason."

"What was, then?"

"You felt that your mind needed time to sort out your thoughts. It proves you are not insane. You said yourself another person made you irritable. So you chose a monologue. This tape recorder will be for you the ear of a silent priest at confession."

Swiftly this recalled Shirley, Father Horace, the evening of the catastrophe. Fiercely I said, "I don't intend this to be a confession to a priest."

"But something of a confession," he said. "And anyway, aren't we, physicians and judges, priests in a way?"

I thought, "Oh! God, won't you ever leave me alone, in peace?"

To the professor, I said, "I am afraid. Of the tape recorder too. What I have to say is too horrible."

"To alleviate your fear I could—provided you agree— give you a little medication, just enough to enable you to talk readily and easily. You^will be under my supervision. You must never talk for more than two hours. Nothing can happen. But I need your permission anyway."

I gave it.

Today too, after breakfast, I received the injection. I feel relaxed, peaceful, without—

I was going to say without fear. But I interrupted myself when a formation of jets raced across the sky above our quiet park. The noise would have drowned out every word. So I halted.

Without fear.

It seemed appropriate that I should be so abruptly interrupted particularly by these swifter-than-sound riders of the modern apocalypse, symbolic of an unusual fear that daily haunts mankind. In fair weather, jets rattle the skies of Rome. In Hamburg and Pacific Palisades too, they rose with the sun, ceaselessly tormenting the skies until the last light faded.

I said it seemed appropriate to me, for what I am about to recount is a tale of fear and not only my fear. Those jets were a suitable overture.

The last few months had been an inferno for me.

Professor Pontevivo relieved me of that fear. He is a great man. Perhaps he will even be successful in restoring me to health.

To do that, he says he must know the truth. On the floor below me is the music room of the hospital. The Frenchman, addicted to drugs, is playing the piano. He is still very young and this is his fifth time here. A hopeless case. He will probably die soon or become insane.

When he was admitted. Professor Pontevivo told me,

he was halfway through a piano concerto. Without drugs he is unable to compose. The most noted musicians have implored Professor Pontevivo to help this sick man com-plete his concerto.

It is said that this hope and potential joy of the universal world of music receives just enough drugs to produce some immortal melody. Immortality from decay, almost insanity, almost death.

The young man works in the morning and afternoon as I do. When I listen to his melodies I happily hear again Gershwin's "Concerto in F." Though what he is originating is obviously his own composition. He is creating something beautiful and if he should die or lose his mind something beautiful will remain. I create something ugly. If I should go insane or die here something ugly will remain: the truth.

There is one thing we have in common: We both have to work dUigently. We must not waste precious moments of the little time we have left. We must finish. The beautiful and the ugly, the good and the bad, unfinished, can be neither joy nof doom.

During the last few months I have transgressed all moral boundaries. A criminal could not have planned, thought, felt or done greater misdeeds than I. Nothing I did can be undone. The dead remain dead, the deeds settled. I can only teU the truth. I swear to do that in memory of Shirley, my love, my only love.

The little golden cross is warm and alive in my hand. This little cross of gold which has accompanied me on my journey through crime, darkness and disaster.

I think of Shirley and our lost love. And I swear by this love to tell the truth, the whole truth, not to add or conceal anything. And now I will continue in my report of the occurrences on the morning of the twenty-seventh of October, 1959, in Hamburg.

I drank whisky, wonderful cold whisky.

I could smell the zesty aroma. I could feel the tart, smoky taste. It burned my throat, oily and heavy it warmed my body.

I gulped the whisky as a drowning man does water instead of air. And, like a drowning man rising to the surface of the sea with his last strength, I returned to life from my unconsciousness.

Then I seemed to see whirling, fiery wheels and flaming stars, and heard a pitched hissing. The sea of flames turned gray and the hissing became the raging of the storm. I opened my eyes. The hds seemed weighted with lead.

I was back in bed. A woman I had never seen before sat before me and held a glass of whisky to my lips, pouring the liquid into my mouth. It spilt down my throat and on the pillow. I choked and fought to catch my breath.

"Well, now," said the strange woman.

I looked around quickly. The drapes had been pulled back again. I saw the dark sky and the black, hurrying clouds. The telephone, lamp and the ashtray were back on the bedside table. The ashtray was clean now. Next to it stood an almost full bottle of Scotch.

"Drink a little more," said the woman. Turning my head my teeth hit the glass. My robe hung on a hanger, my slippers underneath. The newspaper and magazines were folded. My glancing eyes took in headlines: us

STANDS firm: ATTACK ON BERLIN MEANS WORLD WAR HI, SAYS EISENHOWER. NEW SOVIET SATELLITE CIRCLES EARTH.

Who had put me to bed and cleared up the room? I

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was sweating again. My heart was pounding. Something enormous, frightening was vibrating in me.

The fist!

I wanted to ask the woman who she was but only a hoarse whisper came from my throat. Then she spoke. Her voice was deep and melodious. She spoke very pure High German. "I am Dr. Natasha Petrovna."

"A doctor?"

"Yes, Mr. Jordan." She was dressed in a green, tight-fitting suit, green shoes with high heels. Her hair was blue-black, parted in the middle and pulled back into a bun. The little ears were visible.

She bent forward to feel piy pulse. Her fingers were white and narrow and cool. Transparent nail polish covered her nails. I pulled back my hand. The sudden movement made me dizzy.

"Don't move." Her forehead was high and her features were typically Slavic, slanting eyes and prominent cheekbones. The wide mouth was dark red. The brows thick. Her pupils were black and luminous behind large glasses. "I gave the busboy who brought the whisky five marks."

"The... busboy..."

"A tip. I sent back the breakfast. I hope that was all right with you."

"Breakfast..." It took efifort to pull myself together.

"I'm sure you only ordered it to have an opportunity to get the whisky."

The tone of her voice exasperated me. She was so sure of herself and strong, healthy and superior.

"How did you get in here?"

"I was asked to come. Luckily I happened to be in the hotel. A lady from Ceylon became ill and—"

"Who called you?"

"One of the managers. When you fell you pulled down the telephone too. When the operator did not get any reply a busboy was sent up."

"Who put me to bed?"

"The manager, the busboy and I."

"Go away." /

"Excuse me?"

"I want you to go away. I don't want to be examined."

I was never to see Natasha Petrovna lose her composure. Not all the horror we lived through together made her lose her self-restraint. Only one gesture betrayed her effort at control. Her narrow white hands touched the broad sides of her modern black glasses and pushed them up sHghtly. That was all.

"Mr. Jordan, be sensible."

"Leave me alone."

She did not answer but opened her bag to take out a stethoscope. All her movements were deliberate and sedate. The wide cheekbones and the slightly slanted glasses gave her a feline look. There was intelligence in Natasha's face. It was a desiring, passionate face, passionately desiring knowledge and truth. The attractive long-lashed eyes looked at me without anger or impatience.