The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse (16 page)

He felt himself refreshed, and gave himself entirely to the joy of being together with him: what a day today was to be! This day belonged to him. Nothing human or divine was to rob him of this day!

When he had finished washing, shaving, and dressing, which in his case—doing everything with exactness and care—took quite a while, he walked to the bed and laid his hand on the shoulder of the sleeping boy. He did not stir at first, then he grumbled, made a reluctant movement, woke up, and looked around him.

“Good morning, Gunther! Did you sleep well?”

The boy sat up and rubbed his eyes.

“No,” he said crossly, as he saw the already dressed man in front of him, and his look became angry.

Hermann laughed. “It appeared as though you did! But come on, lazy bones, get up and get ready. It’s almost nine.”

The bell rang.

The proprietor, who had received them yesterday, arrived and asked through the door for their wishes.

“Well, what will it be, gentlemen? Coffee? Yes? And since it’s Sunday, also pastry, I suppose?”

“Yes, of course, that too, and plenty . . . and bread and fresh butter.”

When he turned around, Gunther was still sitting in bed, his knees drawn up against his chest, both arms wrapped around them, and looking at him again with that look of yesterday evening—examining, as if curious, as if he wanted to get to the bottom of him.

Hermann could not figure him out. Just what did he want? He was a strange boy.

While Gunther washed himself, lazily and superficially, and slowly dressed, he described his plans for the day. He received no answer.

He still has the night’s sleep in his eyes and senses, he thought.

But when breakfast came, he saw with pleasure that his stomach, at least, was wide awake. He went at everything, and the mountain of pastries sank down visibly. He still said nothing, and Hermann watched with amusement.

What moods such boys could have!

Then, when they were finished and he was packing his bag, getting ready to go, he heard the boy behind him stand up, shove his chair back, and say, “I’m going back to Berlin now!”

He turned around. He believed he had not heard correctly.

“What
do you want to do? Back to Berlin? What’s that supposed to mean?”

But Gunther only repeated himself, and quite calmly: “I’m going back to Berlin.”

“But, for heaven’s sake, why? What will you do there? Didn’t we agree to be together today? So tell me at least, what this is suddenly supposed to mean?”

The upper lip twitched nastily, but no answer came.

Hermann stood there, now likewise speechless, and he knew neither what to say nor what to do.

What was this supposed to be? What did it mean?

Then fear for the day gripped him, which was threatening to vanish from him.

If he had become crazy, this boy who stood there defiantly and spitefully staring ahead, then he had to be the reasonable one.

That’s why he was the older. Just not become angry too. With love—With goodness—

He walked up to Gunther, gripped him with both hands under his armpits, lifted him up, and sat him on his lap.

Holding his arm fast around him, his mouth next to his ear, he spoke, softly at first and falteringly, then ever faster and more urgently.

“Gunther, my boy, now listen to me one time! Look, I have looked forward to this day with you today like a child does to Christmas. You have no idea what I’ve gone through, what I’ve suffered this last week. And now you want to leave. Without any reason—you want to return to hot Berlin, with its dust and its noise. No, my dear boy, you won’t do that to me, will you Gunther? You won’t do that to me?”

He saw how the lip continued to twitch, always more strongly, and he continued, anxiously, imploringly, almost pleading.

“Don’t you know yet how dear you are to me? Don’t you feel it? I never told you, but still you
must
feel it, Gunther—from each and every thing!”

Silence and defiance on his knees.

“Gunther, so tell me at least,
why?
Why so suddenly? What has come into your mind all of a sudden? Why don’t you speak? Why are you being such a stranger to me? We want to get to know one another so as to become friends, and how is that to happen, if I’m not allowed to look into you as into an open book! Why do you still not speak? At least say something, so that I can understand you! Have I done anything to you? Have I offended or hurt you? Come, be good, my dear boy, trust me! Tell me why you want to leave!”

And, now desperate over the silence, which would not yield, his words stumbled over one another: “Isn’t it so, Gunther, you’re staying with me today? Say yes, say that you won’t go back to Berlin, say yes, my dear boy, dearer than anything!”

He fell silent, exhausted. He found no more words.

During this long speech the boy sitting on his knees had only one thought:

Good God, will this nonsense never stop? Not even a horse could stand this for long! This show has got to come to an end. Was he really so stupid? No human could be that stupid! And now he’s even starting up on love—when he did not even touch him the whole night. What does he think about him then! What did he think about at all? Did he want a relationship or not? Then why did he bring him here? No, he was not letting himself be treated so, not like this! But that had to come to an end, and soon. What had Kuddel written in the letter? If you don’t want to have me, you only have to say so!

This nonsense, which was always breaking out anew, was enough to make you throw up!

With the cruel joy of his age, the malicious pleasure of youth, which does not yet know true sorrow and does not know what suffering means—with the malicious joy of inflicting pain (not to inflict pain, no, only really to torment the other), he said, as he quickly got loose from the arms around him and stood up:

“And I’m still going to Berlin!”

Hermann, too, was now standing again.

Even while he was speaking, he had felt with each new word that it was going past him, was wrong, was not heard and not understood, not in the way he meant it.

He had to begin differently.

He saw that he meant it seriously. But he still understood nothing. Not the least thing.

He had to stop him, stop him at any price. But how?

With a desperate attempt at joking he said, “You don’t even have the price of a ticket.”

He promptly received the answer, “You will give it to me!”

Now becoming angry himself, over this more than foolish answer, but still with an effort to keep up the joke, he reached into his coat, which was hanging over the chair, took his wallet out, and held it out open to him.

“I can give you even more. Here, take it!”

The boy was startled for a moment. But then he calmly reached out with his fingertips, took one of the three twenty-mark bills, drew it out, and shoved it into his pants pocket.

“I’m going now!”

That was too much even for the other.

He moved towards him.

“Gunther,” he cried, “you
can’t
be serious!”

But then, when he saw that Gunther really meant to go, and felt deathly shocked at losing him for today—no, not for just today, but perhaps forever:

“You really mean to go. But where will we ever meet again?” And he sought to stand in his way.

Gunther, however, avoided him with a lightning-quick motion and Hermann Graff only heard him say clearly and distinctly, as he opened the door and before he closed it again behind him:

“If you want to see me again—I’m in the Passage every day.”

PART THREE 

1

The Passage—there it was. In its triviality and its dubious fame, it sucked in and spit out, spit out and sucked in—from early morning well into the night, when the insatiable jaws of its two openings were closed with black iron bars.

Sucked in and spit out, spit out and sucked in—crowds, crowds, and always new crowds.

The curious and the indifferent, the casual and the occasional, as well as the seekers—amateurs and professionals in these matters—the natives and the strangers. For there was no Berliner whose walk in the Friedrichstrasse area had not taken him at least once through the Passage, and no stranger who had not soon left it again in disappointment.

The vicious and the inexperienced, swindlers and racketeers of all kinds, carried on their business here. Cheats and idlers, prostitutes and whores—there was no questionable livelihood that did not find its way here. And—the others.

Here came young people without jobs or shelter, without a penny in their pocket, who did not know what they were to live on but who had heard from comrades that money could be made here, and they stationed themselves here—the natives and the newcomers.

Here, too, those who had work came during their free hours: young apprentices and errand boys who thought they could improve their meager week’s wages and make quite a day of it at the same time.

Or because they wanted to go out with their “fiancee” tomorrow, or mother had a birthday and they had to buy her a gift. Often, however, that was not the only reason. Rather, not caring about girls—or not yet—they were looking for a friend who would go out with them on Sundays and take a bit of interest in them—care for them more and understand them better than their parents in their sad “home.” They certainly did not always find what they were looking for, but many good and fine friendships were made here, walking up and down, after the first understanding glance.

Pupils from the secondary schools, in calf-length stockings and colorful caps, came here to get pocket money because they received little or none at home—or just to wander around and “tease the queers” by first enticing them and then abandoning them.

A favorite joke—always, of course, when there were two of them—when they saw that one was following them, was to go up to the nearest policeman on the other side of the street, ask directions to some street or other that was in the direction of the man following them, and then, pointing at him, to die laughing when he believed they were reporting him and quickly skedaddled.

Or also: they let themselves be spoken to, going along amiably, letting themselves be offered cigarettes and then, in the nicest conversation, suddenly drawing themselves up to say threateningly, “Sir, what is it you really want from me? If you do not leave me alone this instant—” Then they would laugh loudly at the terrified man. Of course, a dyed-in-the-wool Berliner did not fall for this dirty trick. He knew from the first glance and word whom he was dealing with; or, when rebuked like that, he only calmly said, “Oh, don’t talk nonsense, you couldn’t do that to me!” and took them along for coffee and pastry, where he then soon found the right way to their responsive hearts.

Or they also came just from curiosity, out of a desire for adventures, because it was too boring at home and elsewhere. They came, then stayed away again, and had long forgotten everything when their real adventure, that with girls, began to capture their interest exclusively.

There it was, the Passage, a Moloch sucking in and spitting out, spitting out and sucking in—crowds, crowds of people, always new crowds. Always the same old picture.

2

What he had done that Sunday after he had been left behind in the hotel room, how he had left the hotel, where he had spent the day, when he had reached home—Hermann Graff would not have been able to answer any of these questions. He also did not pose them to himself. The day had been as if he had never lived it.

In reality he had paid his bill apparently calmly, had rented a boat for the whole day, had lain in it and under the trees in the forest for many hours, and finally had taken the train back home just like the many other excursionists.

The next day he was sitting over his work.

He was feeling nothing; he was thinking nothing.

It was as if he had received a blow from a fist that left him numb and unconscious all day.

What first brought him back to himself again was an inner, boundless rage—over the abysmal dishonesty, the monstrous cheek, and the inconceivable depravity. Everything, every word, every look, every gesture had been a lie, a downright lie!—and he had been so stupid beyond all human conception as to believe in him!

This rage agitated him for days.

But it did not keep up. Basically he was not a person to become angry over others. He was seldom provoked by the vulgarity and meanness of most people. They were the product of circumstances. So long as the circumstances did not change, people would also not change.

Thus the first rage yielded to a feeling of disgust.

How was it possible for a boy, for
this
boy, to degrade himself so much! How was it possible that eyes so clear in certain moments, lips so childlike, words so candid, could be so deceptive?

How was it possible to give himself for—money? For it was really for money that he sold himself and his body.

No doubt things went badly for him, but must one’s aversion not be greater than all hunger?

He did not understand it. He would never understand. But—he told himself now more and more often—he himself had never yet suffered hunger.

He said this to himself so often that even his feeling of repugnance was no longer firm.

What lasted longest with him was his feeling of suffering an undeserved offense.

What had he done to him, that he treated him so? Had he not been friendly and good to him? Had he not helped him? Had he not loved him? He must have known it. He
must
have felt it!

He did not grasp the reason. He did not once suspect the truth.

And if it was not true at all, what he had said with those last rude and appalling words? If they were only an excuse to sneak off—to get away from him?

No, they were true. Only too true. Everything fell into place: this going with him after the second meeting, without remembering the least thing about the first; this going with him, a complete stranger; this always wanting to leave again quickly (who knows to where, but surely to another appointment with even more money to be gained); this hesitation with every answer to his questions (and then always that characteristic twitch of his upper lip, as if embarrassed over his own evasions); and finally also this quick use of “Du,” this quick intimacy acquired in frequent contact with others.

Only one thing did he still not understand: Why had he run away from him on that first day, out of the Passage, with whose activities, according to his own words—he still heard them in his ear (and would continue to hear them!)—he must have been familiar? He did not understand; it was a contradiction.

But he was finished with him, quite finished.

He wanted never to see him again. If chance should bring them together again, he would walk past him in silent disdain, without a glance or a word.

He wanted to forget him. To think about him no more, no more with affection—there could be no question of that—but also not with hate. He was not worth either.

He was to be entirely indifferent to him, like to a stranger whom he had never seen.

He wanted to forget him so completely that he would not even recognize him if they should meet again.

But of course he would never see him again. Berlin was after all large. And in the Passage, where he was “every day,” he would, of course, never set foot again.

3

For Gunther, meanwhile, life went its usual pace.

Potsdam was long forgotten. That morning, on his way to the train station, he saw a steamboat that went to Berlin waiting at the bridge, and he had a fine excursion on the water to Wannsee. If he ever still thought about that day (but he had long since stopped thinking about it), it was not without a feeling of having been personally hurt and deeply offended, but also not without a certain uneasiness. It was probably for this reason that he said nothing about that experience to any of the other boys.

But now, as was said, all that was long forgotten, and the days went by again with a certain regularity: sleep in until noon, a long bath in the boiling Spree (for the heat had not let up), then dice and food (when he had money) at Uncle Paul’s, and finally the lounges. Between times, a short walk through the Passage and down Unter den Linden to see if there was maybe something to be picked up there.

How a day ended could, of course, never be known ahead of time: it might be with some new acquaintance in a hotel or in an all-night cafe, it might be in one of the lounges or even alone.

Times were bad, however. Most of the johns were out of town. With the heat, the few foreigners spent their stay outdoors, and often an evening came when nothing was happening. Then one just had to be a bit hungry again. But it was still never quite as bad as before—they helped one another out.

Thus his life went along again, up to the day when the big event arrived.

On that day, after bathing, he was sitting as usual with several other boys (sixteen to nineteen years old) in the Adonis Lounge. He also had not a penny in his pocket, and the others had just as little or not much more. Going to Uncle Paul’s was out of the question.

They sat around, bored to death, and waited.

But it was still much too early—hardly six.

No other guests were present in the Adonis.

Just as Justav lit the first gas flame in the back room, a taxi stopped in front of the lounge. A servant climbed down from the front seat next to the chauffeur and helped a gaunt gentleman in a top hat out of the car.

They entered, the servant at a respectful distance behind his master. The latter, after a cursory glance around, took a seat in the most remote corner, from where, however, he could survey the whole establishment, and the servant indicated to the boys who came running up from all sides that they should leave the gentleman in peace and not come too near him. In return they could consume, at his expense, whatever they wanted.

When the first general excitement settled, they did not have to be told twice. The boys sat down again, singly or together, and Justav was kept busy. With shy and secretive, partly curious and greedy glances at the noble guest, they ate and drank whatever they could, Gunther among them in his almost always indifferent and indolent fashion.

The strange gentleman watched them calmly from his corner. He ate and drank nothing himself. His servant sat up front and drank a glass of beer.

In honor of his guest, Justav lit all the flames. He could not do more.

An extremely tense expectation settled over all the tables.

But nothing happened.

After about half an hour, the gentleman stood up, tipped his hat politely, left the lounge without having spoken a word (except for a brief whispered exchange with his servant on his way out), and climbed into the automobile outside. The other stayed behind, drank up, then went to the bar, and gave Father (as the old proprietor was called by everyone) a fifty-mark bill with an indication that this was to cover the total expense. The change could likewise be spent on those present.

Then he beckoned to Gunther, who was standing around him with the other boys, and took him outside onto the street.

The cab was long gone.

Behind them rang a wildly confused mixture of loud and excited voices, wrangling over the rest of the money.

Outside, Gunther was asked if he had some time.

Naturally he had time.

They went into the first cafe they came to.

*

There he was questioned about all kinds of things.

What was his name? And where was he from?

Fortunately it occurred to Gunther just in time that, in the face of such definite questions, it would be better not to give his real name. He therefore drew out the false identification papers that Atze had procured for him and which he always carried with him, held them out to him. With a quick glance he had been able to ascertain that he was called Michael Koslowsky.

“Michael Koslowsky,” read the servant. “So Michel—”

After a short reflection he continued. “That won’t do, of course. The Count will have to give you another name.”

Then he asked how long he had been in Berlin.

Here the truth could not hurt. So: four months. (He no longer knew himself for sure. It was only three.)

Did he had any kind of connections here? Relatives? Friends?

No.

Also no “older friend”? An “intimate”?

No, not that either.

Now the questioner showed his cards.

“The Count is interested in you. You are to live with him. You will have everything that you need and will receive each week a generous amount of pocket money. I am the Count’s servant and my name is Franz.”