Christopher and His Kind (16 page)

I had kept worrying during the last few days lest we might have another estrangement. When I was first in Barcelona I was awfully upset about our quarrel and I could not get out of my head the letter you wrote me in London … I did not feel bitter or anything but I had waves of being very upset and then at other times I had waves of feeling just the same and I used to wait for those times to write to you.

As far as our friendship is concerned, it is not exactly that I want to be with you or see you very much. Of course, whatever happens, I shall go on living just in the same way and I shall go on with my work, but if I felt you had abandoned the irritating, continual effort to love me and forgive me I would be very disappointed: in fact much more than that. You and F. are the people I most like. For F. everything's simple and there is no conflict. With you it is different, but in spite of everything you are always fighting and there is something very clear in my picture of you.

Love to Heinz whom I am glad you are always with. I am writing 3 stories and lots of poems. I am 24!

In the elections of March 5, the Nazis failed to win a clear majority, despite their campaign of propaganda and intimidation. But their failure had no practical significance. For, on March 23, the Reichstag was bullied into passing the so-called Enabling Act, which made Hitler master of Germany. In a mad, meaningless way, his successive steps toward absolute power had all been legal.

After the elections, the weather turned suddenly mild and warm; the porter's wife at Nollendorfstrasse 17 called it “Hitler's weather.” The street itself, like all others, was hung with black-white-red swastika flags; it was unwise not to display them. Uniformed Nazis strode along the sidewalks with stern official expressions on their faces; it was advisable to step aside for them. They also came into the cafés and restaurants, rattling collecting boxes for the party; it was necessary to give them something. On the Nollendorfplatz and in other squares and public places, there were radio loudspeakers blaring forth speeches by Goering and Goebbels. “Germany is awake,” they said. People sat in front of the cafés listening to them—cowlike, vaguely curious, complacent, accepting what had happened but not the responsibility for it. Many of them hadn't even voted—how could they be responsible? The city was full of rumors about what went on behind the scenes, in the Storm Troop barracks, where the political prisoners had been taken. It was said that some were made to spit on Lenin's picture, swallow castor oil, eat old socks; that some were tortured; that many were already dead. The government denied all this, furiously. Even to repeat such rumors was treason. New ways of committing treason kept being announced in the press.

Some foreign journalists—those who were openly critical of the Nazi government—used to dine together, most evenings, at a small Italian restaurant. Among them was Norman Ebbutt of the London
Times.
Everybody else in the restaurant, including at least one police spy, watched them and tried to overhear what they were saying. If a German went up to their table and talked to them, he was pretty sure to be questioned by the police later.

One day, a young man came to see Christopher at the Nollendorfstrasse. He knew an escaped eyewitness who could describe conditions in the barracks and give the names of prisoners there; he wanted this to be published outside the country. Christopher had got to know Ebbutt, so he went to him with the information. Ebbutt had already made himself unpopular with the authorities by his revelations; even his own editor was worried about his frankness. The Nazis finally expelled him.

Most of Christopher's Jewish friends had left Germany or were about to leave. Dr. Hirschfeld had been away on a world tour since 1930. The tour had ended in France, where he remained, knowing that it would be fatal for him to return. Karl Giese had joined him there. Christopher must have made some effort to contact Wilfrid Israel—halfhearted, no doubt. Aside from any cowardice he may have felt, he was aware that he might compromise Wilfrid even further—if that were possible; “foreigner” was already becoming a dirty word, and Christopher was a foreigner who must certainly be listed in the police archives as a member of the Hirschfeld Homosexuals and the Hamilton Reds. (Gerald Hamilton himself had already been closely cross-examined by the political police and had hastened to leave the country.)

When the Nazis held their first boycott of Jewish businesses on April 1, Christopher went to see what was happening to the Israels' department store. Nothing much, it appeared. Two or three uniformed Storm Troopers were posted at each of the entrances. Their manner wasn't at all aggressive; they merely reminded each would-be shopper that this was a Jewish store. (In the small provincial towns, where everybody knew everybody and personal hates were fierce, there were window smashings, and shoppers were forcibly disgraced by being marked with rubber ink stamps on their foreheads and cheeks.) Quite a number of people did go into Israel's while Christopher was there, including Christopher himself. When he came out again, having made some token purchase, he recognized one of the boys at the entrance. They knew each other from the Cosy Corner. During the past year, politics had increasingly divided the bar boys. They had joined one or other of the street gangs which were encouraged, though not always officially recognized, by the Nazis or the Communists or the Nationalists. Now the non-Nazis were in danger, but many of them changed sides and were accepted. If you did get beaten up, it was more likely to be because you had a private enemy; this was a great opportunity to settle old scores.

Boy bars of every sort were being raided, now, and many were shut down. Christopher had lost touch with Karl Giese's friends. No doubt the prudent ones were scared and lying low, while the silly ones fluttered around town exclaiming how sexy the Storm Troopers looked in their uniforms. He knew only one pair of homosexual lovers who declared proudly that they were Nazis. Misled by their own erotic vision of a New Sparta, they fondly supposed that Germany was entering an era of military man-love, with all women excluded. They were aware, of course, that Christopher thought them crazy, but they dismissed him with a shrug. How could
he
understand? This wasn't his homeland … No, indeed it wasn't. Christopher had realized that for some time already. But this tragic pair of self-deceivers didn't realize—and wouldn't, until it was too late—that this wasn't their homeland, either.

*   *   *

On April 5, Christopher went to London, taking with him books, papers, and other belongings which he wanted to store in Kathleen's house before he left Germany for good.

Francis had written inviting Christopher and Heinz to join him in Greece, where he was about to have a house built for himself. He had also invited Erwin Hansen and Erwin had agreed to come. Christopher still hesitated. Partly because he remembered what life with Francis had been like at Mohrin, but more importantly because he was unwilling to opt for one particular place. The mere idea of travel excited him so much, at this time in his life, that he loved to enjoy it in the abstract, as an embarrassment of possibilities. This enjoyment had ceased to be mere daydreaming; for Christopher had just inherited a small legacy from his godmother, Aggie Trevor (see
Kathleen and Frank).
He could now afford to spend a summer anywhere in Europe or take a short trip farther still. According to a letter from Forster, Christopher was even considering Brazil.

During his stay in London, Christopher again dictated to Richard. This must have been a revised and longer version of the other manuscript. Kathleen's diary notes that he finished the first part of it a few days before he left, and showed it to Edward Upward. She mentions visits to the house by Bubi (who was then working on a Dutch freighter which smuggled Jewish refugees into England, one on each voyage), by Gerald Hamilton (“He wears a wig and has had an extremely adventurous life!”), and by Forster (whose name Kathleen underlines, evidently as a mark of her special respect).

It was at this time that Forster showed Christopher the typescript of
Maurice.
Christopher felt greatly honored, of course, by being allowed to read it. Its antique locutions bothered him, here and there. When Alec speaks of sex with Maurice as “sharing,” he grimaced and wriggled his toes with embarrassment. And yet the wonder of the novel was that it had been written when it had been written; the wonder was Forster himself, imprisoned within the jungle of pre-war prejudice, putting these unthinkable thoughts into words. Perhaps listening from time to time, to give himself courage, to the faraway chop-chop of those pioneer heroes, Edward Carpenter and George Merrill, boldly enlarging
their
clearing in the jungle. Carpenter and Merrill had been
Maurice's
godparents. Merrill, as Forster was later to disclose, had psychophysically inspired him to write it by touching him gently just above the buttocks. (Forster—how characteristically!—comments, “I believe he touched most people's.”)

Did Christopher think
Maurice
as good as Forster's other novels? He would have said—and I still agree with him—that it was both inferior and superior to them: inferior as an artwork, superior because of its purer passion, its franker declaration of its author's faith. This moved Christopher tremendously on that first reading.

At their meeting in 1932, the Master had praised the Pupil. This time, the Pupil was being asked by the Master, quite humbly, how
Maurice
appeared to a member of the thirties generation. “Does it date?” Forster was asking. To which Christopher, I am proud to say, replied, “Why
shouldn't
it date?” This was wise and true as well as encouraging, and it cheered Forster greatly. He told Christopher so in a subsequent letter.

My memory sees them sitting together, facing each other. Christopher sits gazing at this master of their art, this great prophet of their tribe, who declares that there can be real love, love without limits or excuse, between two men. Here he is, humble in his greatness, unsure of his own genius. Christopher stammers some words of praise and devotion, his eyes brimming with tears. And Forster—amused and touched, but more touched than amused—leans forward and kisses him on the cheek. (Nevertheless, he continued to call Christopher “Isherwood” for two more years.)

Almost every time they met, after this, they discussed the problem: how should
Maurice
end? That the ending should be a happy one was taken for granted; Forster had written the novel in order to affirm that such an ending is possible for homosexuals. But the choice of a final scene remained open. Should it be a glimpse of Maurice and Alec enjoying a life of freedom, outside the bounds of society? Should it be Maurice's good-humored parting from his faithless former lover, Clive: “Why don't you stop being shocked and attend to your own happiness?” Christopher wasn't satisfied with either ending. (The second was the one finally adopted.) He made his own suggestions—as did several of Forster's other friends. He loved this continuing discussion, simply as a game.

*   *   *

When Christopher returned to Berlin on April 30, he was anxious to get out of Germany again, as quickly as possible. Since an itinerary of the journey to Greece had already been planned for Erwin by Francis, he accepted this as the way of least effort and decided to go there too—at any rate, for a start. While still in London, he had heard that the Berlin police had arrested three Englishmen, all of them English teachers. (Kathleen's diary doesn't tell what the charge against them was; I suspect that it was homosexuality.) Also, Frl. Thurau had written that the police had called to question her about him, saying that this was merely a routine checkup. Christopher's common sense assured him that there was no need to be seriously afraid. Even if the worst came to the worst, he wouldn't fall into the hands of the Nazi Storm Troopers; foreigners were dealt with by the police, who treated you with respect for your civil rights. They would merely inform him that he was an undesirable alien and expel him from a country which he was only too eager to leave.

Nevertheless, there was terror in the Berlin air—the terror felt by many people with good reason—and Christopher found himself affected by it. Perhaps he was also affected by his own fantasies. He had always posed a little to his friends in England as an embattled fighter against the Nazis and some of them had encouraged him jokingly to do so. “Don't get killed before I come,” Edward Upward had written, “I'll see you unless you've been shot by Hitler.” Now Christopher began to have mild hallucinations. He fancied that he heard heavy wagons drawing up before the house, in the middle of the night. He suddenly detected swastika patterns in the wallpaper. He convinced himself that everything in his room, whatever its superficial color, was basically brown, Nazi brown.

*   *   *

Christopher had much more cause to worry on behalf of his two intended traveling companions. German citizens now had to get individual permits to leave the country. It was possible, though unlikely, that Heinz would have difficulty. But Erwin Hansen might well be refused and perhaps arrested into the bargain, as a Communist and as an employee of the Hirschfeld Institute. Erwin smiled at Christopher's fears, saying that the Nazis were too busy to bother about small fry such as himself. (A dangerously optimistic notion, for the Terror was still badly organized and therefore unpredictable in its choice of victims.) Meanwhile, until he could start for Greece, Erwin insisted on continuing to live at the Institute, as its janitor.

On May 6, the Institute was raided by a party of about a hundred students. They arrived in trucks, early in the morning, playing a brass band. Hearing the band, Erwin looked out of a window and—hoping to prevent some of the obviously impending damage—asked them politely to wait a moment while he came downstairs to unlock the doors. But the students preferred to enter like warriors; they smashed the doors down and rushed into the building. They spent the morning pouring ink over carpets and manuscripts and loading their trucks with books from the Institute's library, including many which had nothing to do with sex: historical works, art journals, etc. In the afternoon, a troop of S.A. men arrived and made a more careful search, evidently knowing what they were looking for. (It has been stated, since then, that some well-known members of the Nazi Party had previously been patients of Hirschfeld and that they were afraid that case histories revealing their homosexuality might be used against them. But, if this was so, they would surely have had the Institute's archives examined more discreetly. Christopher was later told that all the really important papers and books had been removed by friends of Hirschfeld and sent abroad, sometime before this.) A few days after the raid, the seized books and papers were publicly burned, along with a bust of Hirschfeld, on the square in front of the Opera House. Christopher, who was present in the crowd, said, “Shame!”; but not loudly.