Nightmare in Berlin (28 page)

The other man grew restless as he listened to this account, and he seized the first available opportunity to tell Doll what a dreadful time he'd had of it, and what bad experiences he'd had with other people.

Listening distractedly to the other man's story, Doll immediately thought of the far worse things that had happened to him. He barely heard what the other was saying until he had finished, and then promptly launched into his own tale of horrors.

Both men paused, each looking into the other's careworn face with a wan smile as they realised what they were doing. ‘We're doing it', said Völger, smiling more broadly, ‘just like our dear fellow men, whose foolishness we like to make fun of. Everyone has had it so much worse than anyone else!'

‘Yes!' agreed Doll. ‘And yet it turns out we've all been through pretty much the same things.'

‘That's right', said Völger. ‘Everyone has suffered about as much as they can take.'

‘Absolutely!' agreed Doll.

And then they both fell silent. Doll was in two minds whether he should get up and leave now. Völger had not offered him the prospect of any work; he had not even asked if Doll wanted to write a piece for the newspaper he now helped to edit. Even if Völger didn't see it, Alma knew with what expectations her husband had come here. Perhaps Völger thought that Doll had simply dropped by to say hello to an old acquaintance. But she knew that this visit was meant to be the start of a new life …

And yet …! Precisely because Alma was there, he didn't want to ask Völger straight out if he knew of any work for him. He didn't want to beg in front of Alma. No, the only thing he could do after the other's long and unambiguous silence was to get up, say goodbye, and leave.
Moriturus te salutat!
He who is about to die salutes you! Leave now, and die quietly and with dignity! And Doll was instantly put in mind of another writer, the doctor, the doctor who had once been a writer, the fellow with a head like a skull, ignored and forgotten — how had he put it?
It's as if one were already dead.
And Doll stood up, stretching out his hand: ‘Well, my dear Völger, I must be going. You must have a lot to do …'

‘Yes', said Völger, and took the proffered hand. ‘Yes, there's always a lot to do, far too much! But it's really done me good to see you again — the man they said was dead! Granzow must have been pleased to see you, too. Do give him my regards. I take it he told you I was here?'

‘No!' replied Doll, little suspecting what he was about to learn. Consequently he didn't inquire who this Granzow was, to whom Völger sent his regards. ‘No, I read your name in the newspaper, Völger. I just came here on the off chance.'

‘But you have seen Granzow?'

‘No', said Doll, cautiously. ‘Not yet.'

‘Not yet!' cried the other. ‘Maybe you didn't even know that Granzow has been trying to get hold of you for weeks now, ever since there was a rumour that you were in Berlin? Didn't you know that, Doll?'

‘No', answered Doll again. ‘And to tell you the truth, I don't even know who Granzow is.'

‘What!' cried Völger, and was so genuinely shocked that he suddenly let go of Doll's hand, which he had still been clutching. ‘You
must
know who Granzow is! You must know his poems, at the very least! Or his big novel,
Wendelin and the Sleepwalkers
? Well, of course …', he went on, as Doll continued to shake his head, ‘of course, Granzow
was
living in exile for twelve years, and the Nazis immediately banned all his books in ‘33, obviously. But all the same — you must know him from the time before ‘33!'

‘I really don't!' insisted Doll. ‘You have to remember that I've nearly always lived out in the country, and I know very few writers in person.'

‘But you must have read about him lately in the newspapers', said Völger, trying another tack. ‘He returned from exile back in May, and founded the big artists' association. You
must
have read about it, Doll!'

‘I was the mayor of a small town, working an average of fourteen hours a day', said Doll, smiling at his persistent inquisitor. ‘So I barely had time to read the letters I was sent, let alone a newspaper. The truth is, I looked at a newspaper last night for the first time since the end of the war, and the only name I came across that I knew was yours, Völger. That's why I'm here today. But perhaps you can tell me', he went on, ‘why this Granzow is looking for me, when I don't know him and have certainly never met him?'

‘But Doll!' said Völger, ‘Granzow wants you to join his association, of course! People are expecting great things of you — you're just the man to write a popular novel about the last few years …'

‘No, no', said Doll in reply, and his face had suddenly darkened. ‘I'm definitely not the right man for that, and I wouldn't go near the subject.' He shook his head again and went on: ‘The thing is, Völger, I started off like everybody else, of course, down in the mire. But even later on, when I had clawed my way up out of it a bit, and started to think about what I might like to do later, it seemed to me impossible to write books like before, as if nothing had happened, as if our entire world had not collapsed around us. I thought we would have to write in a completely different way now, not pretending that the Thousand-Year Reich had never existed, and that one only needed to pick up again where one had left off writing before 1933. No, what was needed was a completely new beginning, new in terms of content, certainly, but also in terms of form …'

He paused for a moment and looked a little uncertainly at Völger, who was listening closely. He ended abruptly: ‘But I don't know — so far, I haven't found a way. Maybe I'll never write another book. Everything looks so bleak. Who are we any more, we Germans, in this world we have destroyed? Who should we be talking to? The Germans, who don't want to listen? Or people in other countries, who hate us?'

‘Well', said Völger, ‘if I were in your shoes I wouldn't worry about it, either about finding the right form or finding a readership. I am quite sure that one day you will write again, simply because you are compelled to write! And now you should go and see Granzow — I'll give you his address. The best time to catch him is around lunchtime.'

They parted shortly afterwards. The young wife had not contributed a single word to this memorable discussion, which was highly unusual for the ‘sea surf'. And now, too, as they were walking back on their own, she was silent. This prolonged silence was making Doll feel uncomfortable. Even if he did feel unable to write the novel that had been suggested, and even if he had to disappoint the hopes that Völger, and presumably Granzow, too, had placed in him, he was still gratified by the reception accorded him, and by the fact that people were actually searching for him in the great metropolis of Berlin. (Though how exactly such a search could be conducted was something of a mystery to him.)

For months on end he had felt so small and dejected that the first little bit of interest anyone showed in him, the first sunshine ray of sympathy, warmed him and brightened his life. He felt different, he walked differently, he gazed with different eyes upon the burnt-out machinery lying in the fire-ravaged hall.
Perhaps one day you'll be working for me again after all
, he said to himself.
You look burnt-out and ruined now, but that can be put right — everything in life gets back on track sooner or later …

He stepped out into the grey November day, making his way between the huge heaps of rubble. The wind whipped up evil clouds of dust and ash and scorched scraps of paper. But to him it felt like the wafting of a warm spring breeze, as if all the birds were singing, and the trees were just putting out their first green leaves. He was still somebody, after all! For so long he had felt like a nobody, he had let everyone push him around: but he was still somebody, after all! Völger had shown him it was so, and Granzow believed in him. He felt just like those machines: one day they would all be working again.

He looked across at his companion with an unspoken challenge. Why didn't she say something? Now would have been the time to let him know that she, too, was happy about the reception he had met with.

But she wasn't looking at him at all. Her gaze was directed at the windows of the shops and their pitiful displays, a meagre selection of overpriced substitute goods and showpiece items that were not for sale. All of a sudden, and without giving him any indication of her intentions, she had disappeared inside one of these shops, or rather not a shop but a pub.

Once again he was infuriated by her behaviour, the completely inconsiderate way she just left him standing there without a word of explanation, simply taking it for granted that he would wait for her. But she might be wrong about that: the tram stop was not far away, and when she emerged from the pub he might well be on the tram and on his way, and she would not be present when he had his crucial meeting with Granzow.

It upset him and fuelled his rising anger that his partner, of all people, had to sour this day when his luck was beginning to turn. So no sooner had her face appeared again than he strode off in the direction of the tram stop, not vouchsafing her so much as a glance or a word when she blithely took her place at his side as if nothing had happened.

She was smoking again, of course! So that's why she had gone into the pub — to buy more cigarettes! She was blowing the last of their money without a thought for the future. And now, of course, just when he might have had a cigarette to celebrate this special day, she hadn't offered him one.

The tram was not particularly full, and as luck would have it there were two free seats next to each other, on one of those benches by the door that face inwards rather than forwards. On the other side of the entry door, separated from them by the full width of the tram, sat a fat man with a pale but jowly face, and an old lady who was clearly not with him, whom Doll promptly dubbed ‘the putrid baby' in his mind. This old maid, who had plainly never married, had the pink, innocent cheeks of a baby, but was so disfigured by age and the signs of approaching death that her childlike appearance had something vaguely obscene and sinister about it.

This old creature, decked out in frills, lace, and buttons, appeared to be irritated by the mere sight of Alma casually smoking a cigarette. She gave a couple of contemptuous snorts, looked at her jowly neighbour, then at the young woman again and finally at Doll, who revealed by the fact that he was now paying the conductor for himself and his wife that she was with him.

Doll returned her look with a cool, impassive stare, whereupon ‘the putrid baby' began to mutter furiously. She directed the gaze of her pale-blue eyes now at Alma, now at the other passengers, as if inviting them to join in her protest. It was obvious that the old lady would not be able to contain her feelings for much longer. An explosion was imminent.

Perhaps Alma wanted to hasten the detonation, or perhaps she was simply oblivious of this entire dumb show. At all events, she suddenly took a comb from her handbag, tossed her hair to fluff it up, and began to comb her locks.

This was too much for the old lady. In a loud voice verging on a shriek, she called across to Alma: ‘Kindly do that at home, young lady! You're not in a hairdressing salon here!'

The jowly man nodded involuntarily at these words, and indeed it seemed as if everyone on the tram who had observed the incident was on the old lady's side. But the young woman responded coolly and with controlled politeness: ‘I'm sitting far enough away from you, madam, for it not to bother you!'

But when she saw the cantankerous look on the putrid baby's face, and the censorious or gleeful expressions of the other tram passengers, she suddenly handed the comb over to Doll. ‘You need to use this, too, my dear. Your hair's a real mess.'

After a brief hesitation Doll took the comb and began to comb his hair. At Alma's impulsive action the gleeful faces of the onlookers had taken on an expectant or smiling expression. Even the jowly man sitting next to the old lady was smiling now. But the aggressor flushed crimson with rage, then her face suddenly turned a yellowish white, and she barked out a stinging reprimand: ‘They're all the same, these dolled-up little tramps!' To which Alma coolly replied, while the whole tram waited silently with bated breath: ‘And they're all the same, these dried-up old bats!'

Doll was not the only one who thought the term ‘dried-up old bat' a priceless description of the old lady, because the whole tram was laughing. In fact, the jowly man was so tickled that he drummed his feet on the floor with glee — though he promptly shot an anxious glance at his neighbour. But there was nothing more to fear from her; she had lost the battle. She leaned back in the dark, grimy corner of the tram, and appeared to be wheezing her last, in the last stages of putrefaction, as Doll said to his wife.

After this little interlude, everything was sweetness and light again between the married couple. They chatted away as if they had never had the slightest falling-out. Doll now took a cigarette without hesitation, drew the smoke that he had denied himself for so long deep into his lungs with great relish, and even nodded in agreement when Alma said, almost apologetically: ‘I've been reckless again — I wanted to celebrate today!'