Hopeful Monsters (30 page)

There did not seem to be any sense in there being a liaison between the waiting car and the people on the roof- except that it completed some design on the map. The chairman of the Committee had small steel spectacles and a drooping moustache; he waved a pencil above the map. I thought - He is conjuring up a vision of heroes; of people who on paper have identity and location.

Then - Why did those people in the Great War not get out? Because if the war was in everyone's mind, there was nowhere for them to go?

- But just by seeing this, Bruno and I think we can get out?

It seemed that I should visit my mother before I went on the raid: I might not see her again; I felt I might get some hold on what on earth I was up to. My mother was in her two-roomed apartment at the top of the building in which she worked; she shared these rooms with a woman friend who had once also been a friend of Rosa Luxemburg. I had wondered - Do my mother and this woman make love? Then - What does it mean if one has no difficulty in imagining one's mother and a woman making love -

- That there is nothing about which one is caring?

My mother was propped up in bed with a shawl around her: she said that she had a feverish headache. She had often said she had a feverish headache when I had been a child. I wondered - Does she now understand any more what she is protecting herself against?

The woman who had also been a friend of Rosa Luxemburg's was not there. I thought I might say - I would not mind, you know, if she were.

I told my mother about the raid. I said 'But it doesn't make much sense. We're going to drop a bomb through the skylight of a brothel.'

I waited for my mother to say - You are going to drop a bomb through the skylight of a brothel?

She wrapped her shawl around her and rocked backwards and forwards. She said 'Your father never had much time for brothels.'

I thought - She has in fact gone mad? Then - She is plotting something like a witch?

I said 'I suppose it's dangerous.'

She said 'I blame Bruno.'

'You blame Bruno what for?'

'For getting you into this.'

'For getting me into what?'

She said 'He took you once before to a brothel.'

I thought - There is something purposeful in this madness. Then - Who told her that: my father?

I cooked a meal for my mother on a gas-ring in a corner of her bedroom. She tried to insist that she did not want anything to eat. She hugged her shawl around her. I thought - But this may be the last time I will see you, my mother!

I said 'Why have you got it in for Bruno?'

She said 'I never liked him. His parents were snobs.'

'You talk about him as if he might be a spy.'

She said 'Yes.' Then - 'Probably it's because you're my daughter.'

I thought - But if you can see that, can't you see everything?

- I mean, isn't everything all right?

I sat on the edge of her bed and ate sausages and beans I had cooked for her: she still would not eat anything. I thought I might say to Bruno - She does understand: but perhaps she has been in too long to want to get out.

Then - Of course I am trying to defend my mother.

I said 'Why can't we let the Nazis just get on with it, whatever it

is, if we think they're anyway going to pull the roof down on their heads?'

My mother said 'You still have to go through with it.'

I said 'Even if you die?'

My mother said 'You think you achieve anything without being ready to die?'

I thought - All right. Then - But you shouldn't be saying this to your daughter, O my mother!

Before I left her I said 'You won't tell anyone that I've told you about the raid, will you: we're not supposed to have told anyone.'

My mother said 'You think I'm a spy? Did Bruno say that?'

I thought - God damn! And I thought everything might be all right.

I said 'Goodbye.'

She said 'Goodbye.'

Walking through streets I thought - Oh mothers, what is it about mothers? We are tied to them as if by some terrible rope to the centre of the earth: we cut the rope and we go flying off through the universe; we do not cut the rope and our life-blood runs backwards like that of a baby left lying on the edge of a bed.

I had an almost physical sensation of being pulled in different directions at once: an arm here, a leg there: perhaps I would disintegrate: perhaps there would be a mad confident voice repeating my cries as questions as I fell through the universe.

Back in the Rosa Luxemburg Block preparations were going ahead for the raid. The home-made bomb was like a children's toy with bits of bottles and wires. I sat on the edge of my bed and prepared the clothes I had to dress up in. I said to myself, as if I were my own mother - Take care, my little one.

I said to Bruno 'What is it about Jewish mothers?'

Bruno said 'Oh they have a very important message about life!'

I said 'What?'

Bruno said 'If you sick it up for breakfast, you'll have it back for tea.'

I thought - But what we are doing here is evil: I think good may come out of evil -

- But it is not good to dwell on thinking like this.

You know the style in which streetwalkers in Berlin dressed at that time - high heels, short tight skirt, furs round shoulders like a life-belt; you've seen the paintings and anyway I've told you - well why was this supposed to be attractive? There must have been some

cord dragging people back to an area of phantoms. When the time came for the raid we dressed up in the room behind the guardroom; this was where the people who had been wounded had lain; we were putting ourselves in a position to get wounded; there were these cords, tie-ups, in the brain. We were soldiers going off for a raid in war: well, why do soldiers do it? They do not hate the enemy: they like to dress up in plumes, furs, breastplates. But if humans had not liked playing soldiers, how would they have survived? I mean how would they have fought against mammoths, bears, tigers - except in some sort of ecstasy, with the feathers of dead birds in their hair? I was dressed up in my ghastly tart's uniform for the parade or raid; the others were in black - bombers, burglars, hung with the tools of their trade. And now it was too late to turn back; we ourselves were like bombs ticking with little mechanisms inside us; sooner or later we would go off; tamper with the mechanism and all of us would die, let it go and perhaps one or two would live. And then wake up and find ourselves in some cold new world on the edge of a bed. Bruno and I did not look at each other much. He had put on a jacket like that of a chauffeur. I thought - But in my small car, who would have a chauffeur! We went out into the street; we piled into the car. I thought - Of course, we are on our way to a fancy-dress party. It suddenly did seem, with clarity, that I saw what we were doing: we were some sort of children doing what Mummy was telling us; we could not get out of going to the party because we would be alone and too much in the cold. But what was Mummy? Mummy was what in our minds we were tied to. But was I not now also myself looking down? We drove through streets. I wanted to say again - Hullo my little one! It's all right, my darling! We stopped the car a block or two from the cafe. We got out. Bruno was to wait with the car unless something untoward occurred - a gang of Nazis turned up, for instance - in which case he was to drive round the block to find me and I was to signal to the people on the roof. Or if something went wrong on the roof the people could signal to me, and I could pass the message on to Bruno: then we could all make our own way home. Sometimes this made sense: sometimes it was ridiculous. I thought - Does this depend on whether you look on it from the point of view of a child or a mother? Then - But could not the child help the mother to see that this is ridiculous?

I was on my own now: the others had gone on ahead. I was playing the part of a streetwalker. Of course it was in my interest

to play the part quite well or I might be caught; so here I was, high heels, furs, cold air coming in between; clip-clopping on the pavement. So this was being in the presence of death! Looking down on myself as if from the edge of a bed; a tart dressed up to help drop a bomb through the skylight of a brothel. And just because I could see this did I think I could say - Hullo, hullo, my little one! The three people who were to climb up on to the roof had gone off down an alleyway. They had been like schoolboys, indeed, with satchels over their shoulders. I thought - But I must be careful; I do want, after all, to live? I came to the street where there was the back entrance to the cafe-brothel. The street was empty as most streets were in Berlin at night at this time: there was too much violence; though the violence would also go on, of course, indoors, in torture-cellars, brothels. I went and stood in the doorway of a courtyard from which I could see the back of the building across the road. There was a parapet at the level of the roof at which, if things went to plan, the raiders might briefly appear and indicate any message to be transmitted. I thought - Well, what might we learn from knowing that this is ridiculous, my little one. There was the sound of a car at the end of the street. I thought -Well, either it is Bruno or it is not: in either event, I am a tart in this doorway. The car came towards me down the road. It was my car and Bruno was driving. Bruno was staring straight ahead: he seemed to be smiling. I thought - He is getting out; he is one of those mad archaic statues. Then - I know, but how do I know, that something has gone wrong: Bruno is telling me but, of course, he cannot be seen to be telling me. I stayed where I was in the doorway. Bruno had not looked at me. There were people running in the wake of the car, chasing it; they were calling out; they were, yes, a group of Nazis. When they got close to me they slowed to a walk; there were five or six boys; they were talking and laughing. One of them saw me and stopped: the others went on towards the back door of the cafe-brothel. I thought - But we never discussed what happens to me if I am simply approached as a tart: even for Bruno and me, that was a joke we did not think of talking about. The boy who had not gone on with the others was coming towards me: he had taken off his cap and held it in his hand; he had fair hair; he wore a Brownshirt uniform. I thought - But he is quite like Franz. I had been thinking, had I not, quite recently, of getting in touch with Franz. I had thought he might be able to tell me something of importance. The other Nazi boys had gone in through

the back door of the cafe; they had called out mockingly to the one who was now standing in front of me. One of the raiders at this point appeared at the parapet on the rooftop; he was looking in my direction: I thought - Well, you will get the message, won't you? Is it or is it not just that I am being picked up as a tart. The boy who was like Franz said 'Hullo.' I said 'Hullo.' I was standing in the shadows of the doorway. He said 'Have you got a light?' I said 'Yes.' He pulled out a cigarette-case that seemed to be made of silver; he offered me a cigarette. I took one. Then I had to say 'I'm sorry, I haven't got a light.' He said 'Oh that's all right!' I thought - Oh well, yes, this is all right, isn't it? He pulled out a lighter and lit my cigarette. Then he lit his own. He was a good-looking boy, not so tall as Franz, but with a lean face and clear skin. We blew smoke about. The raider on the roof had disappeared from the parapet. The boy who was like Franz said 'Don't go in there.' He made a gesture with his head to the back door of the cafe-brothel. I said 'Why not?' He said 'There's going to be trouble.' I said 'Trouble?' He said 'A raid.' I thought - Oh dear God, yes, there is some sort of message here! The boy and I stood close to each other; we blew smoke about. After a time I said 'How do you know?' He said 'We've had a tip-off I thought - Well a tart might say, mightn't she, 'What sort of tip-off?' The boy had taken me by the arm and was trying to move me into the light of a street-lamp. I tried to resist. Then I thought - But I have to try to get information, don't I? I let the Nazi boy move me into the light of a street-lamp and I stared up at him. After a time I said 'What sort of tip-off?' He said 'What do you do?' I said 'What?' Then 'Oh, anything.' He said 'Anything?' I said 'Yes.' He was this good-looking boy dressed up in a Brownshirt uniform: he was staring at me. I thought - Well, somewhere or other he is a child on the edge of a bed. He said 'Do you do English lessons?' I thought - English lessons? Then - Oh English lessons, yes. Then - Would you know what 'English lessons' are, my beautiful English boy! I said 'If you like.' He said 'You are beautiful.' I thought - Dear God, is this the message, that they like to be given English lessons, these terrible, beautiful Nazi boys? Then - But should I not thus be able to find out what I need to know? There was an explosion from somewhere inside the cafe-brothel; bits of glass fell out into the street. Someone started screaming. The Nazi boy said 'I must go, but can I see you?' I said 'Yes.' He said 'Where?' I said 'Here.' He had not stopped looking at me when there had been the explosion. He said 'Can I really?' He

put his head down meekly in front of my shoulders. I thought - Oh you are a child all right; you were lain over the edge of a bed by your mother? I put my hand on his arm and held it firmly. I said 'Who was it who gave you the tip-off?' He said 'Why do you want to know?' I said 'Just tell me!' He said 'It was one of their own people.' I said 'Who?' He said 'I don't know.' After a time I said 'All right, you can go.' Then I put my hand up and touched his cheek. He seemed transfixed. I moved away. I thought - So after all, this is not ridiculous?

There was the arrangement that if anything went wrong with the plans we would make our own ways back to the Rosa Luxemburg Block. The Nazi boy did not try to stop me as I walked away: I did not think that he would. I thought - Oh but I have heard stories about how Nazis like to be treated like that: to be beaten, shat on -

- Perhaps that's why they like to get people with mops and pails out on to the streets -

- To compensate for wanting this to happen to themselves?

I was a tart clumping along the pavement in high-heeled shoes. Bruno had come past in the car like a mad archaic statue.