Through Streets Broad and Narrow (43 page)

They filed in and Groarke said, “If this fool says anything more I'm going to cut him.” He picked up a Spanish carving-knife with a sharp point. “I've been damned ill for six months and I can't stand political discussions.”

Luthmann got between John and the knife.

“Put that away, Michael. This is so much an interesting discussion.” He turned to John. “You yourself are not Jewish, I understand?”

“No.”

“But you do not like the British propaganda you have heard about Germany's attitude to the Jewish problem? You are a sympathizer of the Jews only, though not a Jew?”

“What Jewish problem?”

“So you do not recognize in England that there is such a question? That is understandable since you have not so many of them—”

“I don't care about that,” John said. “Just tell us about the concentration camps. Dachau, for example.”

“Ah! The camps. They are a British invention of the period of the Boer War. One of the better things we have borrowed from your Imperial culture.”

Caroline said, “I do think this is too bad of you both. It's the one thing I wanted to avoid.”

“Oh, come!” said Luthmann. “At so delightful a party in aid of neutrality when you have invited a press attaché, what is there to be afraid of in a little clearing of air? Let us all go back to the big room, I will keep care of the knife; we will drink, and, as in my country, we will talk seriously of important things for a little time. Afterwards we will go back to some singing and to lighter affairs in which these beautiful girls may join.”

He led the way, he held open the door and announced to the room, “All, please, attention! There is to be a political talk, a short one. All who wish to participate may do so.” Then he turned to the others and said, “But they are not interested, they are true neutrals, they are all paired off. They have had good food, excellent drinks and now they wish only to whisper to each other and not about politics. How wise they are!”

Groarke said, “You can count me out on this. I'm going home.”

“I will run you home, Michael, later,” Luthmann said quickly. “I do not wish you to leave yet. We still have something to talk about; something which—because it is of importance to us both-must be discussed in private. You will wait?”

Groarke said nothing but he followed John and Caroline to the
annexe where Palgrave was singing love songs gently. When he saw them he broke off and smiled at them.

“I think this an absolutely divine party, Caroline darling,” he said. “Let's have one every year.” But she ignored him and Luthmann said, “Let us sit on the floor; please keep on playing sweet music, Palgrave; then later I will show you a sword dance that we made in my duelling club in Mainz.”

“How thrilling!”

“Now,” he said to John, “the object of putting the Jews in concentration camps is only one: to make them work.”

“Work?” asked Palgrave gravely.

“Please continue playing the piano for us,” repeated Luthmann.

“Christian dear, I want to hear you talking; I simply adore your accent. Besides, my wrists are tired.”

“You see,” said Luthmann, “he does not like work either. He must have Jewish blood in him; have you, Palgrave? Now in Dachau, which somebody just now mentioned, all that we ask is that the Jews and the other prisoners should build a little. Make roads, for example. We have there a roller. It takes fifteen Aryans to move it, or twenty non-Aryans. That is significant. Some people might say that it is because Jews are not so physically fit as other races, that they are not accustomed to work. That may well be true. But in the new Germany everyone must be capable of work. It is going to be a big country with immense
Lebensraum
. Therefore it is good to teach all its future inhabitants to work. It is a kindness.”

“What happens to those who can't?” John asked.

“They must learn.”

“Those who are ill, or dying?”

“As I have told you there are some Jews who would very much sooner die than work. If they are political prisoners they cannot be allowed to go free any more than can yours in the North of Ireland, the Sinn Feiners from this neutral country, Eire, who were bombing your railway stations before the war and whom you still hold imprisoned in Belfast.”

“Up Ireland!” Jan Benjamin interrupted; and two or three of the love-makers took up the cry. Luthmann smiled and got to his feet.

“I will tell you,” he said with renewed confidence, “that I heard of a case recently which about exactly meets your requirements. He was a Jewish decadent and painter, a political suspect whom we sent to Dachau. When he got there he did not like the roller. He preferred to die comfortably. Since there was at that time no room in the hospital it was difficult to arrange for this, but eventually, quite recently, in fact, some kind friend sent money on his behalf and a bed was found for him. Very shortly I have no doubt this particular Jew will have made his chosen escape.”

Greenbloom was standing with his back to the long mirror on the side wall opposite the piano annexe. When John first noticed him, he imagined momentarily that the figure leaning there was that of someone else. There was another instant in which he was convinced that Greenbloom must be a reflection in the mirror. But he stepped out or forward and then everyone saw him. Luthmann stared at him with the immediate hostility of a person who discovers that he has been overheard. He was so astonished that he gave away his inner sense of owning the evening by asking, “Yes?” as though he were the host and was therefore owed the explanation. Then he turned to Caroline, who was still sitting on the floor with her back against the piano, smiling up at Greenbloom apologetically.

Only Palgrave was the equal of the occasion. He rose limply with his most diffident smile and said, “Well, thank God for that! I don't know who you are, sir, but things were just beginning to get rather boring. Let me get you a drink.”

Greenbloom ignored everyone. He put a hand down to Caroline and helped her up, supporting her for a moment.

“I must apologize for being so very late,” he said with a trace of American in his accent. “As I hope you have been told, my name is August Graeme. I am very pleased indeed to meet you and grateful too for your invitation.” He turned to Luthmann and bowed. “I am extremely sorry to have interrupted your discussion about the Jewish question, sir. If I may take a drink I would like to hear the remainder.”

“What would you like?” asked Caroline. “Oh, dear, what have we got? I've completely lost track of everything.”

“Michael will get me a small glass of whiskey if you have it; failing that, a little brandy: no water or soda water in either.”

“The discussion was in any case completed.” Luthmann caught sight of his own reflection in a mirror. “Where did I leave my coat? It is no longer so warm as it was.”

Greenbloom whisked it from the arm of a chair beside him. With transatlantic courtesy he held it out ready for Luthmann to put on and the German attempted to take it, but Greenbloom insisted that he should slide his arms into the sleeves, first the right and then the left. He twitched the bottom of the jacket to make it sit and removed a pale hair from the shoulder.

Luthmann resented this attention and covered his movement of distaste by saying, “I did not quite recollect your name. You also are a friend of Michael Groarke?”

Greenbloom took the proffered glass from Groarke's hand. “My name is Graeme. I am here on business from New York. I am an old friend of Mr. Blaydon's; Mr. Blaydon is an old friend of Mr. Groarke's.”

“From New York? I did not know there was going to be an American here this evening. I was not told.”

“No?” Greenbloom smiled over his drink. “Please do not let my presence interrupt you, sir. A little earlier I was fascinated by your conversation.”

“Good.” Luthmann was disconcerted. He spoke to Caroline. “It is already a little late. If you have a telephone I think I must ask my chauffeur to bring me to the Consulate.”

“Yes, most fascinated,” went on Greenbloom as though he had not heard the last remark.

“I was speaking, you understand, not as an official of my country. Purely as a private person.” The German paused. “You have been here long, Mr. Graeme?”

“A day or two only.”

“Hah!” Luthmann coughed or laughed. “I meant with us this evening, here in this room?”

Greenbloom seemed suddenly to be agreeing with him. “Yes, charming, a most charming room. I must really congratulate you, Miss Smythe-Thomas. I particularly like the use you have made of glass, the many mirrors, the delightful internal windows; they
lend mystery to the space at your disposal, mystery and deception.” He addressed Luthmann again. “In America there have been some misgivings about your country's racial policies; therefore, Mr. Luthmann, I find it most reassuring to hear your account.”

“My account?”

“Of the camps. The concentration camps, my dear sir. The press in America is not always reliable. I am sure you will understand that. For instance, until tonight, why I had no idea that these institutions were so fully equipped.”

“Christian, do not look so serious!” exclaimed Caroline. “Get him a drink, somebody. He's not going to be allowed to go yet. It's only eleven o'clock, we're going to dance in a minute and you were going to show us something—I know! the sword dance.”

John supported her. “That's right, the sword dance, Luthmann.”

But Greenbloom came ponderously forward. His whole physical aspect was slowly changing, an earnest, somewhat foolish, look coming into the gesture with which he stroked the long hair on his temples, his tie more prominent and his double-breasted jacket hanging open.

He said “I don't want to fatigue you, Mr. Luthmann; but I understood you to say that one of your customers, one of these recalcitrants you've had to push behind the wire—”

“An example only,” said Luthmann. “It was just an example. I do not remember precisely what I was saying to these young people; it was merely a conversation, an illustration only, not to be taken as an official—”

“Oh, quite, sir.” Greenbloom addressed Caroline. “Let's all have another drink around here, Miss Smythe-Thomas, if we may? John, will you top up the glasses? I'm grateful I was asked along this evening. I'm getting my notions straightened out. The ideas we've got back in the States, about these things, they're tendentious. They're no use; why, they're just not true. Now, Mr. Luthmann, wouldn't you agree with me that the ideal would be to get the medical profession to co-operate?”

Luthmann was sweating again. Smiling and sweating; but
smiling out of some bewilderment. He refused the drink Caroline was handing to him and moved through into the main room away from the piano which was hemming him in.

“I do not think that I quite understand you. Of what doctors are you speaking, please?”

“That's my English.” Greenbloom waved it away. “When I've had a drink or two or get excited I forget my New England accent and become unintelligible, perhaps?”

“Not at all. Your English is quite excellent.”

“The doctors just won't play along at home,” went on Greenbloom with patient good nature. “As Bernard Shaw advocated in one of his mighty plays, what is wanted is a medical profession which will face up to the facts of the human predicament. Now in Dachau, as I understood you to say, the doctors will co-operate. You get someone who's tired of life into that hospital and he can die comfortably? Is that right?” He appealed to Groarke. “Mike, didn't Mr. Luthmann suggest that anyone who got really sick, an incurable, could get his order filled just like that? Ethically? Or has my eavesdropping put me out over the penalty line?”

“I understood he meant an injection.” Groarke spoke dully. “Cyanide or insulin.”

“Insulin!” enthused Greenbloom. “Why, that's right; that's it. That is the most humane method of all. Very popular amongst psychiatrists—the ones that can't help themselves.” He laughed. “So it must be very efficient. Real euthanasia! When I get home I'm going to talk about this. You have rehabilitation, too, in these camps, Dr. Luthmann?”

“We teach the prisoner to build,” Luthmann said shortly.

“Well, that is rehabilitation and it's the first I ever heard about it. Rehabilitation for the constitutionally fit and euthanasia under medical supervision for the chronically unfit. Well, well! That truly is, as you said yourself, an escape for the man who just can't take it. Dr. Luthmann, I want to shake your hand.”

Luthmann took the hand reluctantly, in almost the same movement glancing at his watch. “You really should not pay too much attention to my remarks, Mr. Graeme. As I have explained I was talking what in America you call off-the-cuff.” He
straightened up. “But now I must be going. It is after all so good a night that I do not think I should trouble with a car. The walk in the fresh winter's air will be good for me. In Germany we have a belief that it is good to walk a thousand paces after a good meal and two thousand after a good drink. I must therefore walk four thousand.”

“But the sword dance,” wailed Caroline. And John joined in. “Palgrave! Mike! Don't let him go without showing us the sword dance. You can't possibly let your host and hostess down, Luthmann.” He chanted, “We want the sword dance. We want the sword dance.”

Everyone took it up and Palgrave sketched out an impromptu refrain on the piano. John got Luthmann by one arm and Groarke by the other. Laughing, they backed him against the largest mirror and Caroline picked up the knife from the top of the piano and waved it about.

“Here's one sword, Christian. Wait and I'll get another from the kitchen. You simply must show us after all those depressing politics. Don't let him go now. Hold on to him whatever you do.”