Nightmare in Berlin (27 page)

‘Is that so?' she cried, growing more heated herself. ‘Is that why you wouldn't take a cigarette from me just now? So now you want to play the pauper? And then I won't be allowed to smoke cigarettes either, and I'll have to eat brown bread all the time, when you know it always plays havoc with my gall bladder! If that's how you want to live, be my guest, but you can count me out! For a start, I've still got lots of things I can sell, and when they're all gone I can still think of a better way out than rotting away in misery.'

He was now equally fired up with anger: ‘Oh yes, it's easy to say you're not prepared to make any sacrifices and threaten to run away every time the going gets a little bit tough. But I'm not going to be threatened, even by you, and if you want to run away, then the sooner the better! I'll go my own way, on my own!'

‘See!' she cried triumphantly. ‘That's just what I thought — there was a reason why you tried to persuade me and the young doctor that I should stay in hospital as long as possible! I'm just a burden to you, and you want to get rid of me. Well, fine, I don't want to make things difficult for you, I can go whenever you like! I'll get on much better without you!'

‘What rubbish you talk!' he cried. ‘I haven't said anything about you being a burden and me being better off without you! You brought the subject up, not me! But that's not what it's all about! The question is simply whether you're prepared to be reasonable now and look after your health. Yes or no?'

‘No — obviously!' she replied scornfully. ‘If you'd asked me nicely, I might have done it. But not like that!'

‘I asked you nicely enough at the beginning, but you just don't want to. So if you really don't want to …'

He looked at her expectantly, but her anger, if anything, was mounting.

‘How many times do I have to tell you that I don't want to! And I'm certainly not going to be bullied by you! See, I'm lighting up another cigarette now, just to annoy you!'

And she lit a fresh cigarette.

‘Fine, fine!' he said. ‘At least I know now where we stand!'

And with that he walked straight past her. Her eyes had grown black with anger; but he walked out of the room, shut the door behind him, put on his coat in the hallway, put on his hat, and left the apartment.

It wasn't blowing a gale outside today, and it wasn't raining either, but never had the street they lived in, with its burnt-out ruins and huge piles of rubble, seemed to him so dark and menacing. Which is just what his life looked like: the war had destroyed everything, and all that was left to him were ruins and the ugly, incinerated detritus of former memories. And that's how it would probably always be; in this respect, it might even be that she was right: there was no escape from this scene of devastation. What he had just been through with his wife was enough to discourage anyone from going on. And he was right, but she was wrong. Reason was on his side, and everything she'd just been saying about not being prepared to do without was utter nonsense!

Yes, she was young, yes, she was pampered and spoilt, and he needn't have come down on her so hard; his comments about the cigarettes and the white bread would have kept until later. He could have been a bit more patient and circumspect. But he was only human, for heaven's sake, and these troubled times weighed heavily upon him, more heavily than they did on her, who lived free as a bird and forgot all her cares from one day to the next! Why did he always have to show consideration for everybody else, when nobody ever showed consideration for him?

No, it was probably just as well, the way things had turned out. The manner of their parting just now showed how things really stood between them, when infatuation didn't make them blind to their differences: at odds about everything; strangers, complete strangers; apart and alone. And now he would go his own way, alone; he wouldn't be telling her what to do any more — she could smoke and sell things off to her heart's content! Not another word! But nor would he be telling her anything about the outcome of his visit to the publishing editor Völger.

Absorbed in these thoughts, he had reached the underground station, bought a ticket, and was waiting for the train with other travellers. The train arrived, and the alighting passengers elbowed their way through the narrow gap grudgingly created for them by the people waiting on the platform. Then he squeezed into the overfilled carriage with the others.

Suddenly a voice beside him inquired in a mocking tone: ‘Perhaps you'd care for a cigarette now?'

He spun round and gazed with bewilderment into the face of his wife, who eyed him with cool disdain. He didn't answer, but declined the proffered pack with an ill-tempered shake of his head. This was the last straw, and anger rose within him again. To have her follow him in secret after such a quarrel and now make fun of him in public — it was more than he could bear.

He was furious that she was coming along with him to what might be a crucial meeting, as if she really belonged there. She was a distraction. He wanted to reflect on what he needed to say to the publishing editor Völger, but all he could think about now was this wretched woman!

He had to change trains from the underground to the local commuter network, and then take a tram, but there was no shaking her off. He had to admit that his behaviour was not exactly gallant — as when he jumped onto the tram at the very last moment, when it was already moving. But she wasn't going to be caught out, and managed to jump aboard after him; enjoying her triumph at his expense, she even paid his fare. He put up a feeble protest, but neither she nor the conductor took any notice.

But it wasn't just about
schadenfreude
for her. Twice she had tried to let bygones be bygones and engage him in harmless conversation. But he had remained tight-lipped, and refused to say a single word.

Now that they had alighted from the tram and had to walk the last part of the way, she tried a third time. They were just crossing a temporary wooden bridge; alongside it, the broad iron bridge with its tarmac-covered carriageway lay in the water, dynamited by Hitler's minions in a futile gesture of defiance. She looked intently at the smooth roadway, which, still in one piece, dropped down steeply from the river bank to the water — which covered it to a depth of less than half a metre — and then rose steeply again to the other bank. Dreamily she said: ‘It's a pity I'm not a child any more: I'd slide down there on the seat of my pants! I'd still do it now — you could do it on a sledge or a bike, too. Tell you what — for a hundred American cigarettes, I'd give it a go here and now!'

Her last words spoiled the impression made by her initial remark, at which he found himself smiling inwardly, despite himself. He could clearly picture her sliding down the slope, laughing and flashing her white teeth, her strawberry-blonde hair streaming out behind her. And she would have done it, too — she was quite capable of something like that. But her last remark about the American cigarettes promptly soured the mood of levity.

But her words had had the opposite effect on her. She took the pack of Chesterfields from her pocket, looked inside, and offered it to him: ‘Well, how about it? The last chance! There are just two left — shall we share?'

He pressed his lips more tightly together and shook his head, even though his fingers were itching to reach out and take one, so badly did he crave a smoke.

‘Have it your own way', she said evenly, and took out a cigarette for herself. As she lit it, she went on: ‘If you insist on being silly and stubborn like a little child, be my guest! But I'm still going to enjoy my cigarette!'

She had drawn the smoke deep into her lungs with a sensual relish, and blew it out again in his direction, doubtless not entirely unintentionally. With the same mocking superiority as before, she said: ‘You'll come round. You'll introduce me to your editor fellow, and you'll have to talk to me, however silly you're acting now!'

The whole time he had been thinking that her remark had struck home at the heart of his frustration. Stung by her words, he now broke his silence and said angrily: ‘Instead of trotting along beside me and distracting me when I need to think, you'd have done better to get down to the housing office and the ration card office! You were full of talk about how you could get it all sorted out in no time! But it never occurs to you to take the initiative, of course — it's so much easier just to leave it all to me!'

She replied scornfully: ‘Don't you worry about the apartment or the ration cards! You think, because you didn't get anywhere, I won't do any better. Well, I'll go down there myself this afternoon, and I'll see that we get what we need!'

Full of feigned pity for her preening ignorance, he said: ‘The offices are closed in the afternoons.'

And she shot back, even more sure of herself: ‘Not for me, my friend, not for me! You'll be surprised!'

To which he replied: ‘No I won't — because you won't get anywhere.'

And with that, this fresh argument was ended for now. They had arrived at the big publishing house, which had once been one of the largest and most imposing buildings in Berlin. On the outside, the towering building still looked impressive and, apart from the window openings — some with shattered glass, others empty or patched with cardboard — untouched by the war. The great heaps of rubble around the building were the only indication that it had probably not escaped unscathed on the inside.

And indeed, when they entered, they found themselves in a cavernous, smoke-blackened space, still reeking of fire, which had been created by the collapse of internal walls.

They then went through a low iron door, and suddenly the smell of burning was gone, and they breathed in the damp, acidic smell of fresh lime. A broad, dimly lit staircase rose before them, the paint on the walls seemingly only just applied by the decorators. Everything smelt new, though it had the smell of a rather cheap job. At any rate, this part of the building had only just been patched up.

On the second floor they entered the editorial office, where Doll hoped to find the publishing editor, Völger, or at least learn his whereabouts. His voice almost faltered as he inquired after the man who had formerly overseen the publication of his books; suddenly he felt as if he had been pressing towards this moment ever since the collapse of the regime, the moment that — hopefully! — would enable him to reconnect a broken past with a new and happy future. Suddenly, in the intervening second between question and answer, he trembled in fear of a ‘No', or a ‘No one of that name here', as if such an answer would definitively slam the door on a better future.

So he breathed a deep sigh of relief when he heard: ‘I'll just go and see if Mr. Völger is free. Who shall I say is inquiring?' He felt a deadness in his limbs as he gave his name, and it was as if, overcome by vertigo, he had just been saved from falling into the abyss.

They were then led into a large, untidy-looking room, which looked more like the workplace of an engineer than a literary editor. Doll gazed into the old, careworn face of an elderly man with sparse white hair.
Good Lord!
he thought to himself in a daze, as he shook the proffered hand,
surely that can't be Völger, not this ancient old man! That can't be Völger!
And as he heard the other man start to speak, he was still thinking to himself:
Maybe he is just as shocked by my appearance. I would never have recognised him! This bloody war — what has it done to us all!

Meanwhile he heard the other man say, visibly moved: ‘Doll, I can't tell you how pleased I am to see you! You realise, don't you, that you were reported as dead? We all thought: so now he's gone, too! And now here you are, in my office! Take a seat, please, and you, too, madam! I'm sorry, it's such a mess in here …'

And he heard himself answer, no less agitated and flurried: ‘It doesn't matter if they said I was dead. As the saying goes, there's life in the old dog yet, and I intend to prove it!' As he spoke he felt Alma's eyes upon him, and was glad that she was sitting quietly, not trying to be the centre of attention at this particular moment, and so, quite contrary to his original intention, he introduced her: ‘This is my wife, by the way, Mr. Völger!' And then added, sensing surprise in the other man: ‘We married shortly before the end of the war.'

‘Yes, indeed!' replied the man, and nodded his white-haired head. ‘There've been big changes everywhere — and that includes me!' He glanced at the young woman, and it sounded almost as if his own marital circumstances had changed. But then he went on: ‘And yet here I am, sitting here in this building again, like I was before the start of the Thousand-Year Reich, older and more bedraggled, doing my job like before. Sometimes it feels as if everything I've been through in the last twelve-and-a-half years is completely unreal, like a distant memory of a bad dream …'

‘Not me!' countered Doll. ‘I haven't reached that point yet. For me, all these horrors are still very real. But then, of course, you've got your work again …'

‘And you? Have you not been able to do any work since the surrender?'

‘No, nothing! But you have to remember, they made me mayor of the town. And then I was ill for a long time.' And he began to talk about the events of the previous months, about the hopelessness, the growing sense of apathy …