The Berlin Connection (52 page)

"Incredible thing to happen. You were already on the wanted hst!"

"Well, it was Christmas! The oflBcials were simply inattentive."

"Where is your passport now, Mr. Jordan?"

"I threw it from the train once I'd crossed into Italy. You can search me too. The Italian police already have. I don't have any travel documents at all now."

One of the men had telephoned his Italian colleagues, who had verified my statement. No, I no longer possessed my American passport.

I wondered where it really was?

I was certain that the hotel had turned over my things to the German police. Apparently they had not found the passport or the detectives would not still be so interested in it. There could be only one explanation: Schauberg, sensing trouble after that drunken phone call I made the night of the twenty-second, must have somehow gained entrance to my suite and taken it. Brave, smart, resourceful Schauberg!

I hoped he and Kathe were well, wherever they were: in Bolivia or Peru, He made it using false passports. Why shouldn't I?

He had wanted a new start. With Kathe to help him.

I wanted a new start too. I could not do it alone either.

I looked around the room where I had spent six months of my life, hovering between life and death, rea-

son and insanity; this room with its bright waUpaper and modern furnishings, the small radio, the tape recorder. .

The tape recorder! I would have to take it with me tomorrow morning, only to leave it behind in the car when the artist Natasha had hired would feign an accident. I would have to run fast tomorrow morning at eleven very fast! ' ^

Tomorrow would be a day which would lead me to the good, to the bad; me, one Hfe among miUions.

13

The morning of June twenty-seventh, 1960, was al ready inhumanly hot. I carried my jacket over my arm while my baggage and the tape recorder were loaded into the car. The false passport was in my trouser pocket.

Nurses, doctors and attendants, in their midst Ponte-vivo, had come to bid me farewell. I thanked them all and said good-by to the professor last. He said, "I must thank you too. You have taught me many things."

"I have?"

"You have given me new understanding."

"Understanding?"

"Of the artist's soul. Farewell, Mr. Jordan. Stay well. Someone said, *A difficult time may be likened to a dark portal. Go through it and you will be invigorated. Then all will become light.'"

The moment he offered me his hand, Bianca, the little cat, rubbed along my leg, mewing sadly. I petted her for the last time and she ran under a eucalyptus bush.

I stepped into the waiting car. An Italian detective was at the wheel. I sat in the back seat between the two Germans. The car rolled across the gravel toward the gate.

The nurses, doctors and attendants waved to me and I returned their farewell gesture. The white villa, surround-

ed by palms, olive trees, stone pines and many, many flowers disappeared from sight.

The sun was a white-hot disc. The windows of the car were open but still it was sticky and hot.

As we drove past the Colosseum I saw on its walls for the first time dozens of those brightly colored posters I was to see presently all over the city. Posters showing my face. Htige letters proclaimed:

•^ PETER JORDAN

NEL SUO SUCCESSO MONDULE COME BACK

Everj'where in the suburbs my face looked from houses and walls.

I looked at my watch. It was ten-forty. The German inspectors had taken off their jackets. Their shirts were soaked with perspiration, especially where they carried their shoulder holsters. One mumbled longingly, "I'll be glad to get back to Hamburg!"

"A kingdom for a beer," said the other.

In the distance on our left the studios of Cinecitta became visible. The oppressive heat of that summer's day seemed to vibrate the horizon where the Albani Mountains rose.

We drove approximately fifteen kilometers to the Ciam-pino airport very quickly. Frequently a plane would roar above us, about to land or beginning its climb. The earth here was brown, scorched, the few trees dusty, leafless and withered. The tires hummed on the hot surface of the Via Appia Nuova.

A few minutes before eleven the car swung into a wide curve toward the glittering Aeroporto Ciampino. Bustling traffic there. The Italian detective had just passed the parking area and entered the one-way road leading to the entrance of the airport. At that spot a seemingly drunk man stepped off the sidewalk and staggered directly into the path of our car.

The driver cursed, braked, and pulled at the wheel. The car skidded. The old man fell and began to yell piercingly. People converged on the scene immediately.

The force of the car skidding had thrown me against one of the inspectors and I hit him hard in his stomach.

He pulled back. I tore the door open and kicked his legs outside the car. I jumped out and ran, my jacket in my hand. Behind me I heard the inspectors yell. Glancing over my shoulder I noticed many excited people shouting, milling about, and thereby preventing the detectives from pursuing me. The small crowd showed a menacing attitude to the occupants of the car since it appeared that they were trying to evade responsibility for the accident. The old man was still lying on the ground, writhing as if in pain, still yelling.

I reached the entrance to the airport. Inside it was cool. A heavy-accented voice reverberated through the building. I heard the end of a message for "Herr Bruno Kerst for Leopoldville. Last call!"

I slithered on the slippery floor but did not fall. I raced to the passport control.

"Signore Kerst?"

"Si..."

While I had been running I had put on the glasses Natasha had given me. The Italian official examined the passport, the ticket, the vaccination certificate while I stuttered, "11 treno . . . ritardo . . . capito?"

"Si, capisco." He was still turning the pages of the passport. He looked at me. I looked at him. I could hear the commotion of the people arguing with the detectives outside,

"Che e successo?"

"Incidente . . . auto . . ."

Then I saw Natasha. Wearing dark glasses, she was standing near a large window from where she could see the plane waiting to take off. Misha was by her side.

The official returned the passport to me.

"Grazie, signore. Adesso vista doganale."

To the customs!

The voices outside grew louder. A whistle shrilled. Breathless, I said, "Baule gia aeroplano ..."

"Ah, bene! Buon viaggio, signore!"

I raced through the barrier. Once more I saw Natasha. She raised her hand. I stepped through the exit. My plane, the ramp still in place, a stewardess standing in its open door. A steward hurried toward me.

"Are you Mr. Bruno Kerst on flight to Leopoldville? We have been waiting for you. Come on, hurry, please!"

Both of us hurried toward the plane; the smiling stewardess in the door urged me with gestures to even greater speed.

Ten more meters. Five. One more. The last one. My hand touched the hot handrail of the ramp steps. I turned around. No one pursued me. Now all I had to do was to climb quickly up those steps, the cabin door would be secured, the plane would start.

I did not hurry up those steps. I let go of the hot handrail.

"What's the matter, sir?"

"I'm sorry. I won't take this plane."

"You don't want to fly to Leopoldville?"

"No."

No, I did not. I could not. I must not. I had suddenly reahzed that as I put that last meter behind me and reached for the rail of the steps. I had realized that in a second's illuminating impulse.

Many thoughts can flash through a man's mind in a second.

14

". . . you must in all your future decisions find the strength, the will and the moral integrity to choose the

right one—^which in all probability will always be the more difficult one..."

Professor Pontevivo's words.

The more difficult way. Hamburg. The easy way. Leo-poldville.

I had chosen the easier way once before. On November ninth, 1938. In Berlin. For one hour. That little stroll twenty-two years ago had destroyed two Uves and almost my life too. Only mine? Not Shirley's too? Not Joan's life?

I had been cowardly and weak twenty-two years ago. I had wanted to escape; escape my responsibihty.

Now I had been about to do it again.

My experiences had shown me that one cannot escape. Not from one's self, only to nowhere. No one can escape his memories. Wanda. Shirley. Joan. And now Natasha. A sequential chain. An inexplicable web in which all are tightly woven.

Last night I had decided to begin a new life. Was this the way? A new deceit, another crime?

I embody evil. I corrupt people as decent as Natasha to violate their moral code: to cheat, to break the law.

No. Natasha must not become so evil as I.

Never!

And that's why I must not go to Leopoldville. That's why I must not try to escape.

I should have understood before.

A new life—yes.

But not this way. "Are you listening?" The steward wa red-faced with anger.

"I'm very sorry, really, but I cannot fly to Leo-: poldviUe."

I walked slowly back to the airport building to the accompaniment of his irritable complaints. "But this is preposterous! We have been waiting for you! You've fouled up our time schedule]"

Behind the large window I could see Natasha's solemn

face and Misha's suq>rised one. I threw away Bruno Kerst's glasses. As I entered the cool hall Natasha came to me and took my hand.

"It won't work," I said. "That way it wouldn't have worked, Natasha."

She nodded.

Voices in back of us. The German detectives, Italian policemen came running. They were out of breath but were all talking at the same time in ItaUan, English, German.

"Es tut mir leid," I said. "Scusi. I'm sorry."

A handcuff was snapped on one of my wrists,

"I'm sorry too," my captor said. "But you don't want it any differently."

"No."

"What do you mean, no?"

"I don't want it any different." A crowd increasingly growing was collecting around us. The other inspector said to Natasha: "I know you. From Hamb\irg. You are Dr. Petrovna, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Did you help Mr. Jordan in his attempt to escape?"

"Yes."

"You will have to answer for that in court."

"Yes."

"Will you return to Hamburg with us on your own volition or will we have to ask the Italian police for help?"

"I'll come voluntarily," said Natasha. We were standing side by side, still holding hands. One inspector held my handcuffed wrist.

He asked, "Why didn't you take that plane? We couldn't have caught up with you."

"I'm sure of that."

"Why did you come back here?"

"Do I have to answer that?"

"Naturally not," he said, embarrassed.

"Then I'd rather not answer." -

Some people meanwhile had recognized me. Even at the airport were posters showing my face. Reporters appeared, camera flashbulbs blazed. One more scandalous story. A few more dozen pictures in a few thousand newspapers and magazines all over the world! Another hundred thousand people who will stream into the cinemas! More money into my bank account! An Italian policeman said something to one of the Germans.

"If you don't mind we'll go to the plane now. They are not quite ready but we have permission to go aboard ahead of time," the detective said to me.

Misha was shocked and touched my handcuffs; the hoarse sounds he made sounded distressed. Questioning, he looked at me, at Natasha, at the detectives. '

"Let's go then," I said.

The Italian police cleared a path through the crowd for us. I walked between Natasha and the officer to whom I was handcuffed. The other German held little Misha's hand, who did not take his eyes off his mother and stumbled often. Natasha looked straight ahead but did not let go of my hand. Near the exit to the planes I saw for the last time one of those huge advertisements.

PETER JORDAN

NEL SUO SUCCESSO MONDIALE

COME BACK

15

The plane was half-filled.

Misha sat at the window, his mother by his side and one inspector next to her at the center aisle. His partner sat on the other side of the aisle and I at the window. Natasha and I could not talk to each other that way. She and Misha had a long conversation as usual using their sign

language. She seemed to be patiently explaining something to him. Finally he appeared to understand; he waved to me, apparently reassured.

I was still attached to the detective by handcuffs. He was no longer angry, only taciturn. He released the handcuffs only during lunch.

The sun shone until we reached Milan.

Then the clouds appeared. Frequently rain pelted the windows; dark, dirty patches of clouds raced past. But we climbed, higher and higher . . .

I am recording this last part of my report in my prison cell in Hamburg, using that same tape recorder Professor Pontevivo had given me—as if he had known that I would have something to add.

My cell is large and quite comfortable. My examining justice is very understanding. Natasha was not arrested. So far it is uncertain what her punishment, if any, will be. Her attorney thinks that she will receive a suspended sentence. She will also be tried by a medical panel. Her attorney hopes that that can be avoided.

Today is July fourth. A Monday. I have been here one week. The first few days were busy with formalities and hearings. It is raining in Hamburg and quite cool. From my barred window I looked out on a yard enclosed by the other three walls and their barred windows. My trial is to begin soon. On Tuesday my attorney is coming for another conference. With him will be the man from the First Civil Court of Los Angeles representing the "People of the State of California v. Peter Jordan." It is his intention to have his court's charge separated from the German indictment, to be tried under American statutes.

Since I shall be quite busy starting tomorrow I shall try to finish my story today. The ninth tape is almost completed. The other eight have been sent at my request to the examining judge by Professor Pontevivo. The finished report will have fully recorded my former life; a new one is about to begin.