The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse (10 page)

“And your mother?”

“My mother was gone when I was still quite small. I always lived with my grandparents.”

His hands, thought Hermann, that’s the reason for those hands . . . and for—

“Shall we go for a short walk, Gunther?”

Gunther looked at the clock on the wall.

“Yes. But I don’t have much time. I have to go to my previous landlady’s. She still has some things of mine. I also still owe her something—”

“But it’s still early—”

“Yeah, sure. But the old woman goes to bed at eight and the house is closed up early. Then I can no longer get in.”

“Perhaps you can just stay there again and sleep there.”

No, thought Gunther. For if I say yes, he will give me only money to eat with and not another five marks to sleep with. So he continued his yarn, making it up just to get away again quickly.

“That won’t do. The room has already been rented again.”

Disappointed, but calm, the other remained silent.

They walked along.

On the bridge, he stopped and pulled himself together. Everything should be just as
he
wanted. Only in that way could he gain his confidence.

“Yes, you’re right, my boy. I was hoping that we would get to know one another better today, but it’s probably better for you to go directly to your landlady, so that you don’t arrive too late. And take this until tomorrow. Then we will see and you will have more time.”

He inconspicuously shoved a bill into Gunther’s pocket.

“And tomorrow, will you already be here tomorrow about three o’clock at this place?”

He listened almost fearfully for the answer.

But Gunther promised. They shook hands.

This time he did not look after him, although he did stay for a while and look into the water at his feet.

He was upset and sad. He had pictured the day so very differently. Then he felt so tired that he went directly home and soon went to bed.

*

Thank God that’s over with! was Gunther’s thought. He was rid of him and he had money. He drew out the bill—again five marks. He could eat nothing more, but now he wanted to finally see that swell film, which he had not gone to again yesterday because of Atze. He hoped it was still running today.

On Friedrichstrasse where he was waiting for the bus to the Stettin Train Station, Gunther was stopped by Saxon as he was about to get on.

Saxon was a little guy three years older but hardly taller than himself, with a pale, vicious face that seemed to pop up everywhere. He did everything and therefore always found lovers. None of the other boys could stand him, but no one ever got rid of him. With his long stride and swinging arms, he was on his legs the whole day, and he never came out of the Passage. He knew how to talk and, if not better than Atze, could outlast him. Nothing got him down: He shook off rudeness as a duck does water, and he was so used to beatings that he did not feel them anymore. He always maintained that he had not a penny in his pocket, but he was always flush.

He knew Gunther of course, and the latter knew him.

“Chick, where ya headed for?”

Although he was from Saxony—hence his nickname—Berlin had wiped out the friendly accent of Saxon’s home.

Gunther was angry, but had to answer.

“I’ll go with you!” And he followed Gunther to the top of the bus before he could be refused.

Naturally Gunther had to pay for both of them at the movie—and pay again when they were sitting and drinking together afterwards. When he finally wanted to go to his hotel, he saw that not enough was left of the five marks to be able to sleep there.

“Well, what does that hurt! Just come along with me to the flop.”

“Where?”

“Why, to the flop, where I always sleep.”

What else was there left!

The flophouse was a foul lodging house whose doors never stood still, night or day. There they and four others had three unclean beds, two men to each, Gunther and Saxon together, one mark the night per head. One would be glad if he came out the next day without having caught crabs (or something worse).

In the morning—for here they had to be out of the beds by nine—they were again knocking about together, for it was simply not possible to get away from Saxon, and so naturally he too learned the story of Gunther’s latest acquaintance.

He saw it from a purely businesslike standpoint.

“Course ya gotta go, when ya get five marks every time.”

Gunther realized that too, especially since between them they did not have twenty pennies and had to roam around the streets and the Friedrichstrasse Train Station, hungry, until three o’clock.

Three o’clock came.

“When will ya be done?” asked Saxon. “You can get it over with in an hour. Then let’s go to Uncle Paul’s and in the evening to the Adonis Lounge. I’ll wait here.”

Who was Uncle Paul? What was the Adonis Lounge? Gunther knew neither the one nor the other.

“Well, if you don’t already know them, then it’s really high time you got to know them,” was Saxon’s opinion.

Now Gunther really was curious.

It was agreed that Saxon would wait nearby.

At three he was on the bridge. What he intended to say in order to get away again as soon as possible, he had already more or less figured out.

4

Again his odd friend was already there, and again joy seemed to come over his serious face as he saw him approach.

In the morning, reluctantly—for he usually spoke with his colleagues and employees only when necessary—he had consulted with the manager of the packaging department, asking if some kind of position was available for a young person as apprentice, or if nothing else, as office boy.

The manager had shaken his head. Not to be thought of. Everything taken. He did not hide the fact that in this slack season, from now until summer, a position for a young boy was probably not readily found anywhere. In Berlin there were thousands of young boys around. Here in Berlin was not like in the provinces, though Herr Graff might not want to believe it.

So there was no chance of a position where he might keep an eye on him.

But today he did not want to let him leave, like yesterday, entirely unquestioned. They would be together the whole afternoon until evening. He wanted to take him somewhere into the open air and discuss everything calmly and thoroughly: how everything was to be now—with him and between them.

It happened differently.

For as soon as he began: “Well now, shall we spend the whole afternoon—” Gunther cut him short:

“I don’t have a long time today. I have to leave right away—”

“Well for heaven’s sake, whatever for?”

Well, his uncle had arrived and had written him that he should expect him.

His uncle? He had said nothing at all about an uncle: “I thought you had no relatives?”

No, not here. But he did outside the city. His uncle had written.

“To where did he write? You don’t have any kind of fixed address.”

Oh yes. When he had gone by his landlady’s yesterday evening, the letter had been there. A letter from the uncle who was coming through Berlin on a trip and whom he was supposed to meet at the train station at four o’clock. But he was traveling on already this evening. Only he had to go there without fail.

His listener became very serious and looked at him as he spoke.

But the now almost blue eyes were looking up at him so innocently that he rejected every suspicion as wicked and unworthy.

But he still remained serious and kept silent.

Finally, while the boy stood waiting before him, he said as determinedly as was possible for him (looking into this face!):

“Alright! If it must be, then go on. I realize that you can’t keep your relative waiting. But tell me one thing, Gunther! Are we really to become friends now? Do you want me to help you and find work for you? Then say so plainly. And if not, then say that just as frankly. I will not force myself on you.”

Then somewhat softer and only hesitantly: “For, the way it was yesterday and is today—you realize yourself that it can’t go on like this.”

Again the eyes, those beautiful eyes, looked up at him.

The five marks threatened to vanish.

“Of course I want it. I’m really happy that I have a friend to help me.”

“Good. Then come to my house tomorrow for the whole afternoon. In a pub or here on the street we can’t talk things over as we must. So, will you come tomorrow or not?”

Again the eyes looked guileless and the same answer came: “Of course I will.”

“Come along then and I’ll show you where I live. I can’t describe it. You have to see the house.”

“Is it far?”

Graff looked at his watch.

“When did you say your uncle is coming? At four? At the Stettin Train Station? It’s not yet half past three. No, it’s not far. Scarcely a quarter of an hour. If we go right away, you can be at the train station punctually at the proper time. I’ll show you the way and then take you to the tram, although it’s only ten minutes’ walk.”

They walked on, the one inwardly afflicted, the other inwardly angry. But there was no other way. Saxon would surely wait until four (and if not, that was just as well). Both kept silent.

They walked north, to Luisenplatz, and in fact hardly a quarter hour had passed when they stood at the entrance to the street that ended in a wall.

They stopped.

“Note the street, please, and that house, Gunther. It’s the last one. There, where the street ends and the wall begins. And be there tomorrow at three o’clock, there at the wall opposite the house. Just stand there. You won’t have to wait. I’ll be at the window. When you see me, come up and I’ll let you in. One flight of steps, to the left. Alright, have you understood everything correctly?” He repeated the details.

Gunther had neither listened nor understood. For sure he would never come here and he had only one thought: finally to be free.

The older man looked at him with concern: “And you will definitely come?”

“Haven’t I always come?”

Yes, that was true. He had always come—yesterday and today, and punctually.

They walked on to the nearest tram stop. The car would come soon.

Graff had just enough time left to say:

“Today I looked around for work for you. You were right, it is very difficult to find work. But we mustn’t lose heart.”

He laid his hand on his shoulder. He felt, despite the warmth of the day, the cool, smooth skin of his cheek on his fingers, and he continued, urgently, as if imploring, so that the boy, keeping still and not moving under the hot hand, in spite of himself heard and remembered the words:

“One more thing, Gunther! Listen to me carefully.

“If your uncle, despite his original intention, should stay longer in Berlin and you can’t get away, or if something else should come up, so that you can’t come tomorrow, then remember that on Monday and each day of next week, somewhat after five o’clock, I’ll be on the bridge and will wait for you there. Are you listening—each day at five or a little later on the bridge!”

A tram car rattled up. It was the right one. They shook hands hastily. Gunther felt a paper bill in his hand and jumped onto the tram.

The man left behind walked slowly down the misty streets, his head lowered and without looking around him.

*

This new disappointment pained him more than he was willing to admit.

What was this now, this unexpected hindrance because of this uncle so suddenly dropped down from the skies!

He did not want to go out again. The day he had looked forward to was now spoiled. So he bought some food for his supper and walked on home.

He sat at his desk and propped his forehead in his hot hands.

What was to become of all this? How was he to find a position for him? How could he support him until one was found? The boy could not just spend night after night in one of these certainly objectionable hotels, which were at any rate not cheap. He needed things besides! That suit, so unsuitable for him, like his shoes, was already worn and covered with spots. And his underwear especially! From what he had seen of it, it was urgently in need of replacement. He must have a job, a place where he belonged, a room with dependable people who looked out for him.

He made a calculation.

If it went on this way and he gave Gunther five marks daily, by the end of the month that would amount to almost his whole salary. It was therefore unthinkable that the two of them could get along on his salary, not even if Gunther had a position (which probably would be as miserably paid as all those positions).

He himself lived quite simply, and his innate sense of order compelled him to get along with what he had. But he had, as he himself knew, one great trait: like on his first day in Berlin he had stopped at a large hotel, even if only in its cheapest and smallest room (it had cost a couple of marks more, but was still so much better than the best room in a second-rate hotel). So, too, he paid a lot only for good things, for good material and good underwear, and when he went to a concert or to the theatre, it was not the seats up in the third balcony that he took. He bought only the most necessary things for himself, but when he bought, he bought the very best (because, as he knew, that was at the same time always the most economical).